Full text of "Weird Tales v34n02 [1939 08] (AT sas)"

See other formats

6Fr RID OF Panprutf

mTH

llSTFRINE

Reaches and kills Pityrosporum ovale,
which causes dandruff . . . scalp
becomes cleaner, fresher, healthier

Don’t go around with a case of
dandruff that humiliates you and
disgusts others. Start using Lis-
terine Antiseptic and massage
once a day at least. Twice a day
is better.

This amazingly delightful treat-
ment has proved successful in lab-
oratory and clinic. Countless men
and women use no other,

Listerine Antiseptic, famous for
25 years as a mouth wash and
gargle, succeeds so brilliantly in
controlling dandruff because it
gives scalp, hair, and hair follicles
an antiseptic bath which removes
ugly flakes and kills the queer,
bottle-shaped germ (Pityros-
porum ovale) which causes dan-
druff.

Start with Listerine Antiseptic
and continue the treatments
regularly. Results will delight and

amaze you. No other remedy that
we know of has such a clinical
record of success in such a large
majority of cases.

Even after dandruff has disap-
peared, it is wise to massage with
Listerine Antiseptic at regular in-
tervals to guard against reinfec-
tion.

Lambert Pharmacal Company
St, Louis, Mo.

THE TREATMENT

MEN: Douse Listerine Antisep-
tic on the scalp at least once a
day. WOMEN: Part the hair at
various places, and apply Lister-
ine Antiseptic right along the
part with a medicine dropper, to
avoid wetting the hair exces-
sively.

Always follow with vigorous
and persistent massage with
fingers or a good hair brush.
But don't expect overnight re-
sults, because germ conditions
cannot be cleared up that fast.

Genuine Listerine
Antiseptic is guar-
anteed nottobleach
the hair or affect
texture.

LISTERINE DANDRUFF

ANTISEPTIC

Have You Had These

W HO has not experienced that Inexplicable phenomenon
of sensing an unseen presence? Who has not suddenly
realized that he has been listening to a conversation within
himself — an eloquent appeal to self from some intangible In-
telligence? "Who has not had that tenseness, that sensation of a
suppressed excitement, as though some power were seeking to
manifest through him? Too long have the restrictions of ortho-
doxy and the ridicule of unenlightened persons kept these
common-place occurrences shrouded in secrecy. Millions now
admit the existence of an mtimate ■persuasive power ... but
centuries of superstition have caused them to fear it.

Learn what the world’s greatest thinkers, artists, poets and
geniuses found by accident . . , that the emotional self, the
infinite intelligence just beyond the border of yoiur thinking
consciousness, is the source of the greatest creative power that
the human mind can command. It is the region from which
idea^ spring, the fountain-head of imagination and forethought,

Accept this FREE Sealed Book

Yon cannot better your place in life by thinking only In terms of what
you have read or heard. Only by the intelligent direction of your inner
faculties will you receive that needed vision and impetus to carry you
beyond the plodding routine-enslaved masses. The ancient sages and
mystics were NOT day-dreaming in their secluded sanctuaries and
temples, but instead they were invoking these natural God-given
powers . ... their feats were not miracles, but the results of the same
faculties which you possess.

The Rosicrucians, a time-honored fraternity (not a religious organi-
zation) devoted to a study of these Cosmic principles and forces, tn-
mte you to share this knowledge which they have preserved. With it
you can gain the utmost from every conscious hour of your life. Use the
gift coupon below and secure without obligation, the fascinating
FREEi Sealed Book, which explains further,

USE THIS COUPON

Scribe, P. T. D.

The Rosicniciami, AMORC,

San Jose, CaJlfornin,

I am smeer^y Interested in knenrins mpre about this unseen, vital power which oaa
be used in acquirioK the fullness and happineee of life. Please send me, without
cost, the book, "THE SECRET HERITAGE." which telle me how to receive this
information.

KAME

ADDRESS STATE

UBe ROSICRUCIANS IamobcI san jose, California

Please mention Newsstand Fiction Unit when answering advertisements

A MAGAZINE OF THE BIZARRE AND UNUSUAL

Weird Tales

REGISTERED IN U.S. PATENT OPHCE

Volume 34 CONTENTS FOR AUGUST, 1939 Number 2

Cover Design Virgil Finlay

Illustrating "Apprentice Magician’’

The Valley Was Still Manly Wade Wellman 5

An eery tale of the American Civil War

Apprentice Magician E. Hoffmann Price 15

A vjhimsical weird story explaitnng why conjuring spells are all in dead languages

Spawn P. Schuyler Miller 26

Nicholas Svadin, European dictator, rose from his bier to rule the world

Voice in a Veteran’s Ear Cans T. Field 45

Verse

The Little Man Clifford Ball 46

An odd and curious story about three strange murders

Return from Death Bruce Bryan 56

A terrific experience of a man who allowed himself to be killed

The Fisherman’s Special H. L. Thomson 66

A peculiar little tale of werewolfery

The House of the Tliree Corpses Seabury Quinn 69

What weird statues stood guard over the grave of Josi Gutierree and his wifef

Giants in the Sky Frank Belknap Long, Jr. 91

An imaginative and astonishing tale of super-beings from another cosmos

Dupin and Another Vincent Starrett 101

Verse

Almuric (End) Robert E. Howard 102

An amazing novel of the demon-haunted world Almuric

The Laugh Richard H. Hart 125

That ghastly cacchination told the diamond-thief that his graveyard quest was fruitless

The Totem-Pole Robert Bloch 131

A frightful horror was consummated in the Indian wing of the museum

My Tomb James E. Warren, Jr. 138

Verse

“I Can Call Spirits” Virgil Finlay 139

Pictorial interpretation of a line from Shakespeare’s "Henry IV"

Weird Story Reprint:

The Fall of the House of Usher Edgar Allan Poe 140

One of the most famous of classic weird stories

The Gardens of Yin H. P. Lovecraft 151

Verse i

The Eyrie 152

The readers htter change opinions

Published monthly by Weird Tales, 9 Rockefeller Plaza. New York, N. Y. Entered as second class matter September
24. 1938, at the post office at New York. N. Y. Sinsle copies, 25 cents. Svhecription rates: One year in the United States
and possessions. Cuba. Mexico, South America, Spain, $2.50: Canada, $2.75; elsewhere, $S.OO. English Office: Charles
Lavell, Limited, 4 Clements Inn, Strand, London W.C.2. l^gland. The publishers are not responsible for the loss of
unsolicited manuscripts, although every care will be taken of such material while in their possession. The contents of
this magazine are fully protected by copyrigdit and must not be reproduced either wholly or in part without permission
from the publishers. FARNSWORTH WRIGHT, Editor

C0PYBI6HTED IN Great Britain

WEIRD TALES ISSUED 1st OF EACH MONTH

RARGAII^

boughT'SOLD* rented

72 -PAOe

ILLUSTRATED

CATALOG

FREE

Write today for big FREE lllaatrated catalog
explaining this amazing eerrice. Uaed eorre-
epondence courses and educational books on
every subject. 100 % satisfaction guaranteed.
We boy fw cash — ^we offer tinbelievable bar-
gains. Send your name on penny postcard at
once 1 No obligation.

NELSON CO., H.226 MANHATTAN BUILDING, CHICAGO, ILL.

BIG PROFITS

FBEG StJlT and PANTS giren as bonus. Also
premiums and handsome gifts. Barn man; bonus
garments. Wholesale prices $7.00 and up. PBEB
swatch sample outlit. Easy sales — no experience.
All garments tailored to your individual mea-
sure. Satisfaction guaranteed.

A. T. TAILORING COMPANY
332 S. Franklin SK Dept. A-4 Chlcoqo, III.

Stop'^Itgr^S

For qtuck relief &om itefuos of insect bites, beat rash, athlete’s
foot, hives, eczema and other externally caused skin troubles^
use world-femous, cooling, antiseptic, liquid D.D.D. Prescrip*
tion. Greaselesa, stainless. Soothes irritation and quickly sto^
the most intend itching. 35c trial bottle proves it, or money
back. Ask your druggist today for D« D« D« PRESCRIPTION,

Banlab the oravlDg for tobacco aa
tbousandfl have. Make yourself tree
and happy with Tobacco Redeomer.
Not a substitute, not habit forming.
Write for free booklet telling of in*
iurious effect of tobacco and depend*
able, easy way to relieve
the craving manymen have.

NowellPharmaealCo.

Dept. 600, St. LoulSt Mo.

fREE

BOOK

^mClNAL SONG POEMS

MoUier, Home, Love. Patrletie, Sacred, Comie er any ubieet.
Don't delay — send your poem today for Immediate oonsideration.
BICHABD BBOS., 27 Woods Bldg., Chicago, Bl.

quicker-easier way

nWEEKS PRACTICAL WORK

CHICAGO SHOPS

WANT TO EARN
MORE MONEY?

Look at the electrical '
work 1)6102 done all around _
opportunities that are here to stay.

. Train for these opportunities with 12
weeks real work on real equipment in my Chicago
ehopa. You work on generators, motors and dynamos.
You do house wiring, wind armatures. And right now
I’m including an extra 4 weeks Radio Course and
valuable instruction in Diesel. Electric Refrigeration
and Air Conditioning at no extra tuition cost.

I'LL FINANCE YOUR TRAINING

Yon can get training first — then pay for most of it
in 12 easy monthly payments, starting 60 days after
12 weeks training period. Mail coupon for big free
book and read the whole story.

H.C. Lewis AVM C aECTRICAL
Prasldtst UUTnCi SCHOOL i
500 S. PauBna SL, Dept C9-e8. Chicago I

•AN fXTRA

^WEEKS'

COUIISl IN '

MAIL COUPON

I H. G. Lewis, President, Coyne Electrical School
I 50(HS. Paulina St., Dex^ C9’66. Chicago, 111.

I Please send ms free your big catalog and full par-
I ticulars of above offer.

i NAME

I ADDRESS....

I CITY STATE.

Home-Studiy

Business Training

Your opportunity win never be bigger than your
preparation. Prepare now and reap the rewards of
early success. Free 64-Pag3 Books Tell How. Write
NOW for book you want, or mail coupon with your
name, present position and address in margin to^y*

n Higher Accountancy
□Mod. Salesmanship
□Traffic Management

□ Law: Degree of LL. B,
□Commercial Law

□ Industrial Mgm*t

□ Business Mgm't

□ Business Corres.
□Expert Bookkeeping

□ C. P. A. Coaching

□ Effective Speaking

□ Stenotypy

EXPOSE OF GAMBLERS SECRETS

New ways they read cards. Stop losing. Know dice ex-
poses, missers and passers, also slot machine and punch
board. New book "BEAT THE CHEAT," $1.00 copy. Add
2Bc for new 1939 catalog. Send $1.26 to
8PECIAX,TY EXPOSES, Box 2488, Kansas City, Mo.

WEIRD BOOKS RENTED

Ewks by lovecrsR, Uwritt, Oolnn, etc., rented by msU. »o a day
plus poataga Write for tree Bat. WEREWOLF LENDING
LIBRARY. 227- J So. Atlantia Avenue, Pittsburgh, Pa.

FOREST JOBS

available at $125-$175 per months
steady. Cabin. Hunt, trap,
patrol. Qualify at once. Get de-
tails Immediately.

BATSON SEBVICE BTJBEAtJ,
B-52, Denver, Colo.

LaSalle Extension University

Degt«75.B A CORBCSPONDENCE

SONG POEMS WANTED

TO BE SET TO MUSIC

Free Examination. Send Your Poems to

J. CHAS. McNEIL

BACHELOR OF MUSIC

4153-NF. 8ouUi Van Nesa Los Angelos, Calif.

U. S. GOVERNMENT JOBS

Railway Mail Clerks, Mail Carriers— Clerks. Clerks at Washington,
etc. $1260 to $2100 first year. Write IMMEDIATELY for Ust of
jobs and pointers on how to qualify for cne.

FRANKLIN INSTITUTE, Dept. M>24f, ROCHESTER. N. Y.

PLEA3E mention Newsstand Fiction Unit when answering advertisements

Mr. Mattingly & Mr. Moore
find they grow more popular every day!

"Swarming crowds at stations meet us.
Cheering delegations greet us
To say our brand exceeds their
expectations!"

“Yes, Mr. Moore,

Yes, Mr. Moore,

And our M & M their
judgment vindicates . . .

“We slow distni for flavor prime.
So 2Lsk for M & M next time —
You’ll find its price is lower
than its flavor indicates !’’

Mattingly & Moore

Long on Quality— Short on Price!

A blend of straigfit whiskus~90 proof. Every drop is whiskey:
Frankfort Distilleries, Incorporated, l/msville & Baltimore.

I F YOU TRIED to guess the price
of Mattingly & Moore by its
smooth, mellow flavor,you’d think
it costs a whole lot more than it
does!

Yon see, M & M is all whis-
key... every drop r/ou'-distilled.
More, it is a blend of straisht

whiskies— tiie kind of whiskey we
think is best of all!

M & M has been famous down
in Kentucky for more than 60
years! Get acquainted with its
grand old-fashioned flavor today!
Ask for it at your favorite bar or
package store.

Please mention Newsstand Fiction Unit when answering advertisements

By MANLY WADE WELIMAN

A Federal army division lay in windrows in that weird valley,
not dead nor yet asleep — an eery tale of the
American Civil War

W IND touched the pines on the
ridge, and stirred the thicket
forest on the hills opposite; but
the grassy valley between, with its red and

white houses at the bottom, was as still as
a painted backdrop in a theater. Not even
a grasshopper sang in it.

Two cavalrymen sat their mounts at the

WEIRD TALES

edge of the pines. The one in the torn
butternut blouse hawked and spat, and
the sound was strangely loud at the brink
of that silence.

"I’d reckoned the Yanks was down in
that there little town,” he said. "Channow,
it’s called. Joe, you look like a Yank your-
self in them clothes.”

His mate, who wore half-weathered
blue, did not appear complimented. The
garments had been stripped from an out-
raged sergeant of Pennsylvania Lancers,
taken prisoner at the Seven Days. 'They
fitted their new wearer’s lean body nicely,
except across the shoulders. His boots were
likewise trophies of war — from the Second
Manassas, where the Union Army had
learned that lightning can strike twice in
the same place; and his saddle-cloth, with
its U. S. stamp, had also been unwillingly
furnished by the Federal army. But the
gray horse had come from his father’s Vir-
ginia farm, and had lived through a year
of fierce fighting and fiercer toil. The
rider’s name was Joseph Paradine, and he
had recently declined, with thanks, the
offer of General J. E. B. Stuart to recom-
mend him for a commission.

He preferred to serve as a common
trooper. He was a chivalric idealist, and a
peerless scout.

“You’d better steal some Yankee blues
yourself. Danger,” he advised. “Those
homespun pants would drop off of you if
you stood up in your stirrups. . . . Yes,
the enemy’s expected to take up a position
in Channow Valley. But if he had done
so, we’d have run into his videttes by now,
and that town would be as noisy as a county
fair."

He rode from among the pines and into
the open on the lower slope.

"You’re plumb exposin’ yourself, Joe,”
warned Dauger anxiously.

"And I’m going to expose myself more,”
returned Paradine, his eyes on the valley.
“We’ve been told to find the Yankees, es-

tablish their whereabouts. ’Then our people
will tackle them.” He spoke with the
confidence of triumph that in the summer
of 1862 possessed Confederates who had
driven the Union’s bravest and best all
through Virginia. "I’m going all the way
down.”

“There’ll be Yanks hidin’,” suggested
Dauger pessimistically. "They’ll plug you
plumb full of lead.”

"If they do,” called Paradine, "ride back
and tell the boys, because then you’ll know
the Yankees actually are in Channow,” He
put his horse to the slope, feeling actu-
ally happy at the thought that he might
suffer for the sake of his cause. It is
worthy of repetition that he was a chivalric
idealist.

Dauger, quite as brave but more prac-
tical, bode where he was. Paradine, riding
downhill, passed out of reach of any more
warnings.

P ARADINE’S eyes were kept on the
village as he descended deep into si-
lence as into water. He had never known
such silence, not even at the frequent pray-
ings of his very devout regiment. It made
him nervous, a different nerv'ousness from
the tingling elation brought by battle thun-
ders, and it fairly daunted his seasoned and
intelligent horse. The beast tossed its head,
sniffed, danced precariously, and had to be
urged to the slope’s foot and the trail that
ran there.

From the bottom of the slope, the vil-
lage was a scant two miles away. Its chim-
neys did not smoke, nor did its trees stir
in the windless air. Nor was there sign or
motion upon its streets and among its
houses of red brick and white wood — no
enemy soldiers, or anything else.

Was this a trap? But Paradine smiled
at the thought of a whole Yankee brigade
or more, lying low to capture one lone
Southerner,

More likely they thought him a friend.

THE VALLEY WAS STILL

wearing blue as he did; but why silence
in that case, either?

He determined to make noise. If there
were hostile forces in and among the houses
of Channow, he would draw their atten-
tion, perhaps their musket fire. Spurring
the gray so that it whickered and plunged,
he forced it to canter at an angle toward
the nearest houses. At the same time he
drew his saber, whetted to a razor-edge
contrary to regulations, and waved it over
his head. He gave the rebel yell, high
and fierce.

"Yee-hee!”

Paradine’s voice was a strong one, and
it could ring from end to end of a brigade
in line; but, even as he yelled, that yell
perished — dropped from his lips, as though
cut away.

He could not have been heard ten
yards. Had his throat dried up? Then,
suddenly, he knew. There was no echo
here, for all the ridge lay behind, and the
hills in front to the north. Even the gal-
loping hoofs of the gray sounded muffled,
as if in cotton. Strange . . . there was no
response to his defiance.

That was more surprising still. If there
were no enemy troops, what about the
people of the town? Paradine felt his
brown oeck-hair, which needed cutting
badly, rise and stiffen. Something sinister
lay yonder, and warned him away. But
he had ridden into this valley to gather
intelligence for his officers. He could not
turn back, and respect himself thereafter,
as a gentleman and a soldier. Has it been
noted that Paradine was a chivalric ideal-
ist?

But his horse, whatever its blood and
character, lacked such selfless devotion to
the cause of State’s Rights. It faltered in
its gallop, tried first to turn back, and then
to throw Paradine. He cursed it feelingly,
fought it with bit, knee and spur, and
finally pulled up and dismoimted. He drew
the reins forward over the tossing gray

head, thrust his left arm through the loop,
and with his left hand drew the big cap-
and-ball revolver from his holster. Thus
ready, with shot or saber, he proceeded on
foot, and the gray followed him protest-
ingly.

"Come on,” he scolded, very loudly — he
was sick of the silence. "I don’t know v/hat
I’m getting into here. If I have to re-
treat, it won’t be on foot.”

Plalf a mile more, at a brisk walk. A
quarter-mile beyond that, more slowly; for
still there was no sound or movement from
the village. Then the trail joined a wagon
track, and Paradine came to the foot of
the single street of Channow.

He looked along it, and came to an
abrupt halt.

The street, with its shaded yards on
either side, was littered with slack blue
lumps, each the size of a human body.

The Yankee army, or its advance guard,
was there — but fallen and stony still.

“Dead!” muttered Paradine, under his
breath.

But who could have killed them? Not
his comrades, who had not known where
the enemy was. Plague, then? But the
most withering plague takes hours, at least,
and these had plainly fallen all in the sanae
instant.

ARADINE studied the scene. Here
had been a proper entry of a strange
settlement — ^first a patrol, watchful and
suspicious; then a larger advance party, in
two single files, each file hugging one side
of the street v/ith eyes and weapons com-
manding the other side; and, finally, the
main body — men, horses and guns, with a
baggage train — all as it should be; but
now prone and still, like tin soldiers strewn
on a floor after a game.

The house at the foot of the street had
a hitching-post, cast from iron to represent
a Negro boy with a ring in one lifted hand.
To that ring Paradine tethered the now

WEIRD TALES

almost unmanageable gray. He heard a
throbbing roll, as of drums, which he iden-
tified as the blood beating in his ears. The
saber-hilt was slippery with the sweat of
his palm.

He knew that he was afraid, and did
not relish the Lnowledge. Stubbornly he
turned his boot-toes forward, and ap-
proached the fallen ranks of the enemy.
The drums in his ears beat a cadence for
his lone march.

He reached and stood over the nearest
of the bodies. A blue-bloused infantry-
man this, melted over on his face, his
hands slack upon tlie musket lying cross-
wise beneath him. The peaked forage cap
had fallen from rumpled, bright hair. The
check, v/hat Paradine could see of it, was
as downy as a peach. Only a kid, young
to die; but was he dead?

There was no sign of a wound. Too, a
certain waxy finality was ladcing in that
slumped posture. Paradine extended the
point of his saber and gingerly prodded a
sun-reddened v/rist.

No response. Paradine increased the
pressure. A red drop appeared under the
point, and grew. Paradine scowled. The
boy could bleed. He must be alive, after
all.

"Wake up, Yankee,” said Joseph Para-
dine, and stirred the blue flank with his
foot. The flesh yielded, but did not stir
otlierwise. He turned the body over. A
vacant pink face stared up out of eyes that
were fixed, but bright. Not death — and not
sleep.

Paradine had seen men in a swoon
who looked like that. Yet even swooners
breathed, and there was not a hair’s line
of motion under the dimmed brass buttons.

'Tunny,” thought Paradine, not mean-
ing that he was amused. He walked on,
because there was nothing left to do. Just
beyond that first fallen lad lay the rest of
the patrol, still in the diamond-shaped for-
mauun tiiey mast have held when awake

and erect. One man lay at the right side
of the street, another opposite him at the
left. The corporal was in the center and,
to his rear, another private.

The corporal was, or had been, an ex-
citable man. His hands clutched his mus-
ket firmly, his lips drew back from gritted
teeth, his eyes were narrow instead of star-
ing. A bit of awareness seemed to re-
main upon the set, stubbly face. Paradine
forbore to prod him with the saber, but
stooped and twitched up an eyelid. It
snapped back into its squint. The corporal,
too, lived but did not move.

"Wake up,” Paradine urged him, as he
had urged the boy. “You aren’t dead.”
He straightened up, and stared at the more
distant and numerous blue bodies in their
fallen ranks. "None of you are dead!”
he protested at the top of his lungs, unable
to beat down his hysteria. "Wake up,
Yankees!”'

He was pleading with them to rise,
even though he would be doomed if they
did.

"Yee-hee!” he yelled. "You’re all my
prisoners! Up on your feet!”

“Yo’re wastin’ yore breath, son."

Paradine whirled like a top to face this
sudden quiet rebuke.

A man stood in the front yard of a
shabby house opposite, leaning on a picket
fence. Paradine’s first impression was of
noble and vigorous old age, for a mighty
cascade of white beard covered the speak-
er’s chest, and his brow was fringed with
thick cottony hair. But next moment Para-
dine saw that the brow was strangely nar-
row and sunken, that the mouth in tire
midst of its hoary ambush hung wryly
slack, and that the eyes were bright but
empty, like cheap imitation jewels.

The stranger moved slowly along the
fence until he came to a gate. He pushed
it creakily open, and moved across the
dusty road toward Paradine. His body and
legs were meager, even for an old man,

THE VALLEY WAS STILL

and he shook and shuffled as though ex-
tremely feeble. His clothing was a hodge-
podge of filthy tatters.

At any rate, he was no soldier foe. Para-
dine bolstered his revolver, and leaned on
his saber. The bearded one came close,
making slow circuit of two fallen soldiers
that lay in his path. Close at hand, he
appeared as tall and gaunt as a flagstaff,
and his beard was a fluttering white flag,
but not for truce.

'T spoke to ’em,” he said, quietly but
definitely, "an’ they dozed off like they
was drunk.”

"You mean these troops?”

"Who else, son? They come marchin’
from them hills to the north. The folks
scattered outa here like rabbits — all but me.
I waited. An’ — I put these here Yanks to
sleep.”

TTE REACHED under his veil of beard,
-L -L apparently fumbling in the bosom of
his ruined shirt. His brown old fork of a
hand produced a dingy book, bound in
gray paper.

"This does it,” he said.

Paradine looked at the front cover. It
bore the woodcut of an owl against a round
moon.

The title was in black capitals:

JOHN GEORGE HOHMAN’S
POW-WOWS
OR

LONG LOST FRIEND

"Got it a long time back, from a Penn-
sylvany witch-man.”

Paradine did not understand, and was
not sure that he wanted to.- He still won-
dered how so many fighting-men could lie
stunned.

"I thought ye was a Yank, an’ I’d missed
ye somehow,” the quiet old voice informed
him. "That’s a Yank sojer suit, hain’t it?
I was goin’ to read ye some sleep words.

but ye give the yell, an’ I knew ye was
secesh.”

Paradine made a gesture, as though to
brush away a troublesome fly. He must
investigate further. Up the street he
walked, among the prone soldiers.

It took him half an hour to complete his
survey, walking from end to end of that
unconscious host. He saw infantry, men
and officers sprawling together in slack
comradeship; three batteries of Parrott
guns, still coupled to their limbers, with
horses slumped in their harness and riders
and drivers fallen in the dust beneath the
wheels; a body of cavalry — it should have
been scouting out front, thought Paradine
professionally — all down and still, like a
whole parkful of equestrian statues over-
turned; wagons; and finally, last of the pro-
cession save for a prudently placed rear-
guard, a little clutter of men in gold braid.
He approached the oldest and stoutest of
these, noting the two stars on the shoulder
straps — a major general.

Paradine knelt, unbuttoned the frock
coat, and felt in the pockets. Here were
papers. The first he unfolded was the copy
of an order:

General T. F. Kottler,

Commanding Division, USA.

General:

You will move immediately, with your en-
tire force, taking up a strong defensive posi-
tion in the Channow Valley. . . .

This, then, was Kottler’s Division. Para-
dine estimated the force as five thousand
bluecoats, all veterans by the look of them,
but nothing that his own comrades would
have feared. He studied the wagon-train
hungrily. It was packed with food and
clothing, badly needed by the Confeder-
acy. He would do well to get back and
report his find. He turned, and saw that
the old man with the white beard had fol-
lowed him along the street.

WEIRD TALES

“I reckon,” he said to Paradine, in tones
of mild reproach, '“ye think I’m a-lyin’
about puttin’ these here Yanks to sleep.”

Paradine smiled at him, as he might have
smiled at an importunate child. "I didn’t
call you a liar,” he temporized, “and the
Yankees are certainly in dreamland. But
I think there must be some natural ex-
planation for "

"Happen I kin show ye better’n tell ye,”
cut in the dotard. His paper-bound book
was open in his scrawny hands. Stooping
close to it, he began rapidly to mumble
something. His voice suddenly rose,
sounded almost young:

"Now, stand there till I tell ye to move!”

Paradine, standing, fought for explana-
tions. What was happening to him could
be believed, was even logical. Mesmerism,
scholars called it, or a newer name, hyp-
notism.

As a boy he, Paradine, had amused
himself by holding a hen’s beak to the
floor and drawing a chalk line therefrom.
The hen could never move until he lifted
it away from that mock tether. That was
what now befell him, he was sure. His
muscles were slack, or perhaps tense; he
could not say by the feel. In any case,
they were immovable. He could not move
eye. He could not loosen grip on his saber-
hilt. Yes, hypnotism. If only he ration-
alized it, he could break the spell.

But he remained motionless, as though
he were the little iron figure to which his
horse was tethered, yonder at the foot of
the street.

The old man surveyed him with a flicker
of shrewdness in those bright eyes that had
seemed foolish.

"I used only half power. Happen ye
kin still hear me. So listen:

“My name’s Teague. I live down yon
by the crick. I’m a witch-man, an’ my
pappy was a witch-man afore me. He was
the seventh son of a seventh son — an’ I
was his seventh son. I know conjer stuff —

black an’ white, forratd an’ back’ard. It’s
my livin’.

"Folks in Channow make fun o’ me, like
they did o’ my pappy when he was livin’
but they buy my charms. 'Things to bring
love or hate, if they hanker fer ’em. Cures
fer sick hogs an’ calves. Sayin’s to drive
away fever. All them things. I done it
fer Channow folks all my life.”

I T WAS a proud pronouncement, Para-
dine realized. Here was the man dili-
gent in business, who could stand before
kings. So might speak a statesman who
had long served his constituency, or the
editor of a paper that had built respectful
traditions, or a doctor who had guarded a
town’s health for decades, or a blacicsmith
who took pride in his lifetime of skilled
toil. This gaffer who called himself a
witch-man considered that he had done
service, and was entitled to respect and
gratitude. The narrator went on, more
grimly:

“Sometimes I been laffed at, an’ told to
mind my own bizness. Young ’uns has
hooted, an’ throwed stones. I coulda cursed
’em — but I didn’t. Nossir. They’s my
friends an’ neighbors — Channow folks. I
kep’ back evil from ’em.”

Tlie old figure straightened, the white
beard jutted forward. An exultant note
crept in.

“But when the Yanks come, an’ every-
body run afore ’em but me, I didn’t have
no scruples! Invaders! Tyrants! Thiev-
in’ skunks in blue!” Teague sounded like
a recruiting officer for a Texas regiment. "I
didn’t owe them nothin’ — an’ here in the
street I faced ’em. I dug out this here
little book, an’ I read the sleep v/ords to
’em. See,” and the old hands gestured
sweepingly, "they sleep till I tell ’em tx)
wake. If I ever tell ’em!”

Paradine had to believe this tale of oc-
cult patriotism. 'There was nothing else to
believe in its place. 'The old man who

THE VALLEY WAS STILL

called himself Teague smiled twinklingly.

"Yo’re secesh. Ye fight the Yanks. If
ye’ll be good, an’ not gimme no argyments,
blink yore left eye.”

Power of blinking returned to that lid,
and Paradine lowered it submissively.

"Now ye kin move again — I’ll say the
words.”

He leafed through the book once
more, and read out; "Ye horsemen an’
footmen, conjered here at this time, ye may
pass on in the name of . . Paradine did
not catch the name, but it had a sound
that chilled him. Next instant, motion was
restored to his arms and legs. The blood
tingled sharply in them, as if they had been
asleep.

Teague offered him a hand, and Para-
dine took it. That hand was froggy cold
and soft, for all its boniness.

"Arter this,” decreed Teague, "do what
I tell ye, or I’ll read ye somethin’ ye’ll
like less.” And he held out the open book
significantly.

Paradine saw the page — it bore the num-
ber 60 in one corner, and at its top was a
heading in capitals; TO RELEASE SPELL-
BOUND PERSONS. Beneath were the
lines with which Teague had set him in
motion again, and among them were
smudged inky marks.

"You’ve crossed out some words,” Para-
dine said at once.‘

"Yep. An’ wtote in otliers.” Teague
held the book closer to him.

Paradine felt yet another chill, and beat
down a desire to turn away. He spoke
again, because he felt that he should.

"It’s the name of God that you’ve cut
out, Teague. Not once, but three times.
Isn’t that blasphemy?, 'And you’ve writ-
ten in ”

"The name of somebody else.” Teague’s
beard ruffled into a grin. "Young feller,
ye don’t understand. This book was wrote
full of the name of God. That name is
good — fer some things. But fer curses an’

deaths an’ overthrows, sech as this ’un —
well, I changed the names an’ spells by
puttin’ in that other name ye saw. An’ it
works fine.” He grinned wider as he sur-
veyed the tumbled thousands around them,
then shut the book and put it away.

Paradine had been v.^ell educated. He
had read Marlowe’s Dr. Fauslus, at the
University of Virginia, and some accounts
of the New England v/itchcraft cases. He
could grasp, though he had never been
called upon to consider, the idea of an al-
liance with evil. All he could reply was;

"I don’t see more than five thousand
Yankees in this town. Our boys can whip
that, many and more, witliout any spells.”

Teague shook his old head. "Come on,
let’s go an’ set on them steps,” he invited,
pointing.

The two wallced back down the
street, entered a yard and dropped down
upon a porch. The shady le.aves above
them hung as silent as diips of stone.
.Through the fence-pickets showed the blue
lumps of quiet that had been a fighting di-
vision of Federals. There was no voice,
except Teague’s.

"Ye don’t grasp what v/ar means, young
feller. Sure, the South is winnin’ now — ■
but to win, men must die. Powder must
burn. An’ the South hain’t got men an’
powder enough to keep it up.” ?

If Paradine had never thought of that
before, neither had his superiors, except
possibly General Lee. Yet it was plainly
true.

Teague extended the argument:

"But if every Yank army w-as put to
sleep, fast’s it got in reach — ^wliat then?
How’d ye like to lead yore own army into
Washington an’ grab ole Abe Lincoln
right outen the White House? How’d ye
like to be the second greatest man o’ the
South?”

"Second greatest man?” echoed Para-
dine breathlessly, forgetting to fear. He
was being tempted as few chivalric ideal-

WEIRD TALES

ists can endure. "Second only to — Robert
E. Lee!”

The name of his general trembled on
his lips. It trembles to this day, on the
lips of those who remember. But Teague
only snickered, and combed his beard with
fingers like skinny sticks.

“Ye don’t ketch on yet. Second man,
not to Lee, but to — me, Teague! Per I’d
be a-runnin’ things!”

Paradine, who had seen and heard so
much to amaze him during the past hour,
had yet the capacity to gasp. His saber was
between his knees, and his hands tightened
on the hilt until the knuckles turned pale.
Teague gave no sign. He went on:

“I hain’t never got no respect here in
Channow. Happen it’s time I showed ’em
what I can do.” His eyes studied the win-
drows of men he had caused to drop down
like sickled wheat. Creases of proud tri-
umph deepened around his eyes. “We’ll
do all the Yanks this way, son. Yore gen-
’rals hain’t never done nothing like it,
have they?”

His generals — Paradine had seen them
on occasion. Jackson, named Stonewall
for invincibility, kneeling in unashamed
public prayer; Jeb Stuart, with his plume
and his brown beard, listening to the clang
of Sweeney’s banjo; Hood, who outcharged
even his wild Texans; Polk blessing the
soldiers in the dawn before battle, like a
prophet of brave old days; and Lee, the
gray knight, at whom Teague had laughed.
No, they had never done anything like it.
And, if they could, they would not.

"Teague,” said Paradine, “this isn’t
right.”

“Not right? Oh, I know what ye mean.
Ye don’t like them names I wrote into the
Pow-Wows, do ye? But ain’t everything
fair in love an’ war?”

T eague laid a persuasive claw on the
sleeve of Paradine’s looted jacket. "Lis-
ten this oncet. Yore idee is to win with

sword an’ gun. Mine’s to win by con-
jurin’. Which is the quickest way? The
easiest way? The only way?”

“To my way of thinking, the only way
is by fair fight. God,” pronounced Para-
dine, as stiffly as Leonidas Polk himself,
“watches armies.”

“An’ so does somebody else,” responded
Teague. “Watches — an’ listens. Happen
he’s listenin’ this minit. Well, lad, I need
a sojer to figger army things fer me. You
joinin’ me?”

Not only Teague waited for Paradine’s
answer. . . . The young trooper remem-
bered, from Pilgrim’s Progress, what sort
of dealings might be fatal. Slowly he got
to his feet.

“The South doesn’t need that kind of
help,” he said flatly.

"Too late to back out,” Teague told him.

“What do you mean?”

“The help’s been asked fer already, son.
An’ it's been given. A contract, ye might
call it. If the contract’s broke — well, hap-
pen the other party’ll get mad. They can
be worse enemies ’n Yanks.”

Teague, too, rose to his feet. “Too
late,” he said again. “That power can
sweep armies away fer us. But if we say
no — well, it’s been roused up, it’ll still
sweep away armies — Southern armies. Ye
think I shouldn’t have started sech a thing?
But I’ve started it. Can’t turn back now.”

Victory through evil — what would it be-
come in the end? Faust’s story told, and
so did the legend of Gilles de Retz, and
the play about Macbeth. But there was
also the tale of the sorcerer’s apprentice,
and of what befell him when he tried to
reject the force he had thoughtlessly
evoked.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked,
through lips that muddled the words.

“Good lad, I thought ye’d see sense.
First off, I want yore name to the bargain.
Then me ’n’ you can lick the Yanks.”

Lick the Yankees! Paradine remembered

THE VALLEY WAS STILL

a gayly profane catch-phrase of the Con-
federate camp: “Don’t say Yankee, say
damned Yankee.’’ But what about a
damned Confederacy? Teague spoke of
the day of victory; what of the day of
reckoning?

What payment would this ally ask in the
end?

Again Faust popped into his mind.
He imagined the Confederacy as a Faust
among the nations, devil-lifted, devil-nur-
tured — and devil-doomed, by the con-
nivance of one Joseph Paradine.

Better disaster, in the way of man’s war-
fare.

The bargain was offered him for all
the South. For all the South he must re-
ject, completely and finally.

Aloud he said: "My name? Signed to
something?’’

"Right here’ll do.”

Once more Teague brought forth the
Pow-Wows book which he had edited so
strangely. “Here, son, on this back page —
in blood.”

Paradine bowed his head. It was to
conceal tire look in his eyes, and he hoped
to look as though he acquiesced. He drew
his saber, passed it to his left hand. Upon
its tip he pressed his right forefinger. A
spot of dull pain, and a drop of blood
creeping forth, as had appeared on the
wrist of the ensorcelled boy lying yonder
among the Yankees in the street.

“That’ll be enough to sign with,” ap-
proved Teague.

He flattened out the book, exposing the
rear flyleaf. Paradine extended his red-
dened forefinger. It stained the rough
white paper.

“J for Joseph,” dictated Teague. “Yep,
like that ”

P ARADINE galvanized into action. His
bloody right hand seized the book,
wrenching it from the trembling fingers.
With the saber in his left hand, he struck.

A pretty stroke for even a practised
swordsman; the honed edge of the steel
found the shaggy side of Teague’s scrawny
neck. Paradine felt bone impeding his
powerful drawing slash. Then he felt it
no longer. The neck had sliced in two,
and for a moment Teague’s head hung free
in the air, like a lantern on a wire.

The bright eyes fixed Paradine’s, the
mouth fell open in the midst of the beard,
trying to speak a word that would not
come. Then it fell, bounced like a ball,
and rolled away. The headless trunk stood
on braced feet, crumpling slowly. Para-
dine stepped away from it, and it collapsed
upon the steps of the house.

Again there was utter silence in the
town and valley of Channow. The blue
soldiers did not budge where they lay.
Paradine knew that he alone moved and
breathed and saw — no, not entirely alone.
His horse was tethered at the end of the
street.

He flung away his saber and ran,
ashamed no more of his dread. Reaching
the gray, he found his fingers shaky, but he
wrenched loose the knotted reins. Flinging
himself into the saddle, he rode away
across the level and up the slope.

The pines sighed gently, and that sound
gave him comfort after so much soundless-
ness.

He dismounted, his knees swaying as
though their tendons had been cut, and
studied the earth. Here were the foot-
prints of Danger’s horse. Here also was
a cleft stick, and in it a folded scrap of
paper, a note. He lifted it, and read the
penciled scrawl:

Dear frend Joe, you ant com back so I left
like you said to bring up the boys. I hope
your alright & if the Yankies have got you
well get you back.

L. Dauger.

His comrades were coming, then, with
gun and sword. They expected to meet

WEIRD TALES

Union soldiers. Paradine gazed back into
the silence-brimmed valley, then at what
he still held in his right hand. It was the
Poiu-Wows book, marked with a wet capi-
tal J in his own blood.

What had Teague insisted? The one
whose name had been invoked would be
fatally angry if his help were refused. But
Paradine was going to refuse it.

He turned to Page 60. His voice was
shaky, but be managed to read aloud:

“Ye horsemen and footmen, conjured
here at this time, ye may pass on in the
name of” — ^he faltered, but disregarded the
ink-blotting, and the substituted names —
"of Jesus Qirist, and through the word of
God.”

Again he gulped, and finished. "Ye
may now ride on and pass.”

From under his feet burst a dry,
startling thunder of sound, a partridge ris-
ing to the sky. Farther down the slope a
crow took wing, cawing querulously. Wind
wakened in the Qiannow Valley; Paradine
saw the distant trees of the town stir with
it Then a confused din came to his ears,
as though something besides wind was
wakening.

After a moment he heard the notes of
a bugle, shrill and tremulous, sounding an
alarm.

Paradine struck fire, and built it up with

fallen twigs. Into the hottest heart of it
he thrust Teague’s book of charms. The
flame gnawed eagerly at it, the pages
crumpled and fanned and blackened with
the heat. For a moment he saw, standing
out among charred fragments, a blood-red
J, his writing, as though it fought for life.
Then it, too, was consumed, and there were
only ashes. Before the last red tongue
subsided, his ears picked up a faint rebel
yell, and afar into the valley rode Confed-
erate cavalry.

He put his gray to the gallop, got down
the slope and joined his regiment before
it reached the town. On the street a Union
line was forming. There was hot, fierce
fighting, such as had scattered and routed
many a Northern force.

But, at the end of it, the Southerners ran
like foxes before hounds, and those who
escaped counted themselves lucky.

I N HIS later garrulous years, Joseph
Paradine was apt to say that the war
was lost, not at Antietam or Gettysburg,
but at a little valley hamlet called Chan-
now. Refusal of a certain alliance, he
would insist, was the cause; that offered
ally fought thenceforth against the South.

But nobody paid attention, except to
laugh or to pity. So many veterans go
crazy.

WILL YOU TRY A HNER, COOLER SHAVING CREAM FREE!

mioTAMW WOTACIttHCl^
T&4lieHn WHyKOTOSf
THINKICMMr ilSTIWMI
MVWITHWf WAVIMttCMAM
'AIKAVC? A»»OnASHAVf
TMATUSTfALlM^

■UMCISTOABOr
TMO USTERlNa
WY;M.fVt«r fKAYINAClUAM
TP8IATW «ive$MfTH6
nMCA-KOrBIAO CLOSm^MOST
tf fOTOUaH wiMtfSS WKrt
\ __ tKVRRHAP

THAT PMI $A*VltMA9l

M6 A cvsroAen rot LiFe.iTsoFTns

THR Y0U6HEST8EAA»>I.IAVIS XUt SKM
COOI. AK» FltANT'ANO MY, WHAT
0*tyt24aUARn OFSOOmMUTMEA
T9TKS TUtt-ir sceitf TO usr FOMYftf

bISTERINC

SHAVING

Lambert Pbarmacal Ca, E>ei>t. 29, St. Louis, Mo. Please send me &ee and postpaid your large sam-
ple tube of □ Listerine Shaving Cream; □ Listerine Brushiess Cream. (Cb^k whichever is desiredj

Name-

-Address-

City.

jState-

pprentice Magician

By F,. HOFF^V1■A^T^T PRICE

A whimsical weird story about the lovely image with the lion’s head, and
the reason why conjuring spells are all in dead languages —
by the author of "The Stranger from Kurdistan"

T he minute I saw Uncle Simon, I
knew there wasn’t a chance of
fooling him about anything. In-
stead of being tall, like the rest of us Buck-

ners, he was short. His face was pink and
babyish, and the hair showing around the
edges of his black skull-cap was just like
cotton. You can’t ever fool these kind and

16 WEIRD

simple-looking people, not when they’ve
lived as long as Unde Simon.

“So you’re Duke’s boy, Panther War-
iield Buckner?’’ He looked halfway sol-
emn, and halfway amused. "And you came
all the way to California to see me. Well,
well. That’s nice.’’

We hadn’t written him, but he acted
like he’d expected me.

He was Grandfather’s brother, but we
always called him Uncle when we talked
about how rich he was. Dad and the rest
of the folks sent me to get friendly with
Uncle Simon so he’d will me his property
instead of giving it to a college or some-
thing. They figured since I’d been to high
school I was bright enough to do that, but
here I was, feeling doubtful already.

Unde Simon reminded me of the sheriff
who raided Grandfather’s still, back home
in Georgia. I hadn’t been born more than
a couple days when that happened, but I
saw him later. Then I was old enough to
understand that Grandfather wearing
stripes so much of the time was w'hy I was
named Panther.

“Hit’s because the Buckners don’t never
change their stripes,’’ Dad would say,
somewhat sourly.

The preacher said, “Duke, probably
you’re thinking of the leopard that doesn’t
change his spots.”

But Dad was stubborn. Nobody could
tell him anything about the Scriptures. He
wouldn’t read, and Grandfather couldn’t,
and so here I was, with Uncle Simon smil-
ing to himself about my name.

“It’s been mighty lonesome. Panther,’’
he said, looking up suddenly. "I’m get-
ting pretty close to ninety and I’ve got a
lot of work to do. Maybe you can help me.’’

“I reckon I can. Uncle Simon.’’ WTien a
man is near ninety, he won’t have long to
work a fellow to death. “I can skin mules,
and I can run a tractor, like some of these
up-to-date plantations have.’’

"Do you suppose you can run a still?’’

TALES

“No, sir, but I can learn; though Dad
said times w'ere changing, and I ought to
be a preacher or lawyer or something,
which is why I weqt to high school.”

He looked at me and smiled like he was
enjoying a good joke. “So instead of send-
ing you to college, he sent you out here to
see his Uncle Simon.”

I got red and began fumbling with the
arms of my chair. The room was so big I
could hardly see the further end of it, and
the carpets looked like silk; deep and soft
and shiny. A man smart enough to get all
those things and a big house was too much
for me. I said, "Uh — yes, sir.”

Uncle Simon’s eyes bored right through
me, even though he was smiling and
friendly. I was wondering why his voice
was so young. It wasn’t particularly deep,
but it didn’t crack like Grandfather’s.

“You came out here to inherit my
money.”

I was sweating. I let out a deep breath,
and brushed my cowlick from between my
eyes, though it never does any good. Uncle
Simon went on, "Well, I need an appren-
tice to learn my business. Do you know
any Latin?”

I nodded, having spent three years on
Latin One.

“Any Greek?”

"Yes, sir. A little,” though it wasn’t a
thin dime’s worth.

“Any Hebrew?”

There was no use trying to fool him.
"What I meant was, if I’d gone to the sem-
inary to be a preacher. I’d have learned
those things.”

“That’s all right. It won’t take you long.”

"Uncle Simon,” I blurted out, "what
kind of a trade is this, where an apprentice
has to know all those languages?”

"I’m a magician. The spells are in dead
languages, or ignorant people would run
around practising and hurting themselves.”

It was too late to back down. So I be-
came a magician’s apprentice.

APPRENTICE MAGICIAN

T he work was interesting, sometimes,
though for a while I didn’t know but
what Uncle Simon was mocking me. He
hadn’t promised me I’d be his heir if I did
my work right, and I couldn’t think of any
way to bring the subject up again. When-
ever I’d get aroimd to it, he’d start conjur-
ing.

'There was the time we were out in the
garden. The house was inside of a high
stone wall with spikes that sloped in, and
some that pointed out, so getting over it
from either direction was mighty near im-
possible unless you could fly. Uncle Simon
kept the key to the gate. Anyway, we were
standing about ten feet away from the live
coals in the bottom of the dry swimming-
pool in the yard.

My hands were blistered from chopping
wood for the fire. He didn’t have any help,
colored or white, excepting me. It was a
shame to drain that pool. And the heat of
the coals was scorching the leaves of the
big fig-tree. I wiped off some sweat and
leaned on my rake and said, "Uncle Simon,
when a man gets your age, he hadn’t ought
to work like you do.”

"Age don’t affect me like it does most
folks.” He sat down on a stone bench and
untied his shoe laces. "Take off your
shoes!”

I guess I looked silly, but Dad taught
me to mind when I was spoken to. In a
minute I was blinking and barefooted. It’s
funny how quick you get used to wearing
shoes. But another funny thing was how
Uncle Simon had changed the subject. I
was still figuring out another way of work-
ing up to him changing his will when he
beckoned and said, "Now we’re going to
take a walk. Won’t hurt you a bit.”

"Shucks, Uncle Simon, my feet are
pretty tough.”

He rubbed his hands and chuckled.
"We’re walking in that fire. A first-class
apprentice has to learn that one. You won’t
be burnt unless you’re scared.’'

He didn’t argue. He didn’t even look
back. He just climbed down the ladder
and began walking barefooted across the
coals. I could see the thin bits of ash crack
off where his feet sunk in a little.

When I got to the bottom of the ladder,
at the shallow end, I could smell the hot
blast scorching the cuffs of his pants. 'They
were frayed a bit, and it was the loose
threads that curled up. But Uncle Simon
didn’t notice that. He made a funny hum-
ming noise, like he was singing with his
teeth clenched. It made me dizzy to watch
him.

The whole floor of the pool was dancing
and waving up and down like a rug get-
ting shook out. I felt like the time I drunk
a mason jar of Grandfather’s corn whisky.
I got mad, too. Gianging the subject every
time I aimed to ask him about his will!
Trying to mock me and make me act
scared!

So I took a step — a long one. I’d seen
the blacksmith pick up chunks of red-hot
iron, only he dropped them real quick, and
maybe that was the trick. But I pretty
nearly forgot to keep on walking, I was so
surprised.

My feet didn’t feel hot. Just my face
and hands. I was hearing music. It was
heathen - sounding — deep notes that
boomed, and funny little ones like some-
one whistling and crying at the same time.
But it was the brass that made me shake all
over. I was shivering, and I wanted to hol-
ler and dance and fight. Trumpets yelling,
and gongs whanging like they couldn’t
stop if they wanted to.

The fire began to change color. It got
blue and then purple. It seemed like Uncle
Simon was walking down a covered bridge
all roofed over with flames. A twisting
hole reached way beyond the yard. I
couldn’t tell whether it was going up,
down, or straight.

Then I saw things like the postmaster
must’ve, when he had the DT’s, only these

WEIRD TALES

were so beautiful I couldn’t believe it.
There was a green woman, ’way off. Some-
times she had a lion’s head growing right
from her neck, and again, she had the pret-
tiest human face I ever saw. She reached
her arms toward me, as though she didn’t
see Uncle Simon at all.

I couldn’t see him any more, either, and
I wasn’t scared. I ran toward her. The
music was hitting me like a hammer now,
and echoes began telling me what her name
was.

T dEN it all faded out. I was on the bot-
tom of the pool, past the coals. Uncle
Simon had his hand on my shoulder.
“When your legs are steady enough to
climb, get out,’’ he said. "It’s all-fired hot.
You aren’t burnt, are you?’’

“Not a bit.’’ I wasn’t, though I still
couldn’t believe it. “Who was that green
girl that was changing her face all the
time?’’

“What’s that?’’ Uncle Simon looked at
me narrow-eyed, and dropped his shoe.
"When was this?”

“Back there, when the music started.”
He lifted his black cap and rubbed his
bald spot. He hadn’t ever looked half as
thoughtful, not even when he was giving
me lessons in Hebrew and Greek. Then he
smiled and said, "You did pretty good for
a beginner. Panther. It’s mighty near time
for you to study spells and incantations.”

He walked away, like he’d forgotten I
was there. If Father knew how I’d missed
anotlier chance to ask about that will, he’d
beat me with a harness tug. He always
claimed that until I was old enough to
vote, an occasional whaling was a good
w'ay to build character. I hadn’t dared
write to tell him I was becoming a magi-
cian, but it looked now as if I’d ought to.
Uncle Simon sure was a good one.

That evening I got a real surprise. He
poked his head out of the library and asked
me to come in. 'This v/as the first time he

ever let me see what was in back of that
locked door.

“Panther,” he said, “before we get
through with your lessons, you’re likely to
get the tar scared out of you, but I think
you’ve got backbone.”. He reached for a
sheet of paper. “'This is my new will. You
get everything, though your kinfolk’ll
swindle you out of it soon enough. Now,
tell me more about that girl.”

He stuffed the will into the old-fash-
ioned roll-top desk. The lamp that reached
up out of die mess of papers and books
didn’t make enough light for me to see
much of what was in the room, but I could
feel things looking at me out of the shad-
ows. I began telling him about the funny
dress she wore, and the way her hair was
fixed in a lot of long, shiny curls that hung
down over her shoulders.

“She wore a crown with a snake on it?’’
he broke in.

“That’s right. Except when she was
wearing a lion’s head and showing her
teeth. It was just like ”

’Then I sat up straight and started staring
at something I’d just noticed in the far
corner. I pointed. “That’s her, now!”

Uncle Simon smiled as though I didn’t
know the half of it. He said, “That’s just
a statue,” and snapped on another light.

It was shiny green stone. The woman
was bigger than the angel over I-Will-Pre-
vail Carter’s grave, back home; only she
was sitting, with her arms close to her
sides, and her hands reaching to her knees.
She’d been right pretty, except that it just
wasn’t natural, a woman having the head
of a female lion.

The eyes looked ’way past me, like she
was seeing something that was a million
miles away, or a million years past. It made
me squirm, but I couldn’t look anywhere
else. Finally I said, “Uncle Simon, you
been worshipping graven images?”

He laughed and said, “You go to your
room and get at your studies.”

APPRENTICE MAGiaAN

Y OU can make a fellow look at books,
but you can’t make him leam a thing.
Not when his mind isn’t on it And mine
wasn’t.

Even if Dad had stood over me with
a harness tug, I’d not learned a line of
that Hebrew, though I was getting so I
could recite whole pages of it, out loud.

It’s the funniest language. You speak
some of the words from your collar-bone,
and after you’ve been at it for an horn:,
your throat has cramps. But as I said, it’s
impressive-sounding, like when the parson
pounds the pulpit and says you’re going to
hell sure as all get out, and almighty Gawd
won’t look at you whilst you’re sizzling.

No, I didn’t learn a single line that
night. I was thinking of that green girl.
Not the one that was a graven image, but
the real one. I was mad now because the
path of coals had been so short. If it’d been
longer, I swear I’d have walked right up
to her. She held her arms out to me, and I
don’t think she was mocking me.

It looked like Uncle Simon was inter-
ested, too. For a man his age, that wasn’t
quite right. I felt like a fool, the v/ay I
blatted it right out, but how was I to know
he hadn’t seen her.^ Now he knew about
her, and he was foxy enough to have his
way with people. Look at Grandfather,
pretty near seventy, and marrying Lily Mae
Carter — that’s the postmaster’s daughter —
right under the noses of fellows her own
age, when she wasn’t a day over sixteen.

I didn’t know Just what, but I was fixing
to do something. If Uncle Simon got riled
at me, he’d change the will, and no telling
what else he’d do to me. And on top of it
all, Dad and the wagon spoke would get to
work on me.

I began to get scared. You see, I was
dead set on seeing that girl again. Ask her
to quit pretending she had a face like a fe-
male lion, when it was plain as day that she
was a woman. With that close-fitting skirt
that reached pretty nearly up to her arm-

pits, you couldn’t help noticing how pretty
she was, all over.

There was something funny about it all.
I was getting used to magic, but Uncle
Simon knew ten times as much as I did.
Still and all, he was surprised when I men-
tioned her. He acted like I’d found some-
thing he’d been looking for and not find-
ing. 'That was hard to believe, but that’s
how he acted.

It finally began to make sense as I sat
there. He was just too old for that girl, so
she’d been hiding from him. Me, I got a
face like a coffin, and Dad says I look like
I’m always fixing to fall over my own feet,
but women don’t seem to mind that at all,
as long as a fellow is young.

So I planned things out. I’d find that
girl and stay long enough to talk to her.
Warn her, so Uncle Simon and his magic
couldn’t make her mind him. He’d get
mad when it failed, but he wouldn’t be
able to blame me.

If I went out and built a fire. Uncle
Simon’d notice that, and then where’d I
be? But there was another way. I’d learned
some powerful spells; only I’d never tried
any of them except when he was around to
see I didn’t get into trouble. And he
wouldn’t let me call up evil spirits. Some-
times they raise sand, and if a fellow even
looks like he’s scared, they finish him in a
wink. That sort of thing is for master
magicians.

But shucks, that green ghi wasn’t any-
thing evil.

I SNEAKED out oTf my room, and went
toward the library. It was late, and
Uncle Simon was snoring upstairs. I didn’t
have to go out into the yard to try a win-
dow. He’d forgotten to lock the door.
When a man gets close to ninety, he’s ab-
sent-minded at times.

TTaere were some books and stuff on his
desk that hadn’t been there when I left
him. One of them had a snakeskin bind-

WEIRD TALES

ing, and the title was on the back cover.
The Hebrews started on the last page, in-
stead of the first. The idea is to fool people
that are used to ordinary books. They start
reading backward and it don’t make sense
— not even to a magician.

I hadn’t gone over more than half a
page when I was so happy I nearly hol-
lered out loud. It was all about the girl
from the fire. There were notes in Uncle
Simon’s handwriting, and dates, and every-
thing. He’d been trying for years and he
hadn’t as much as seen her.

And while I was in my room, he’d been
trying to figure out how I’d met her, when
I walked over the coals. I sat down and
put my feet on his desk. My heart was
going thump-thumpety-thump, like the
Odd Fellows Band in Athens. For a sec-
ond, I was so dizzy I nearly fell out of the
swivel chair. That was when I learned who
I’d been talking to, and what she was.

She was a goddess. Her name was Sekh-
met, and she wore the face of a female lion
to scare ignorant folks. She lived in the
Land of Fire, and her disguise mask meant,
fire is dangerous — don’t monkey around
unless you know how to act.

Sekhmet was from Egypt, but ever since
King Solomon married Pharaoh’s daugh-
ter, the Hebrews were more or less neigh-
borly with the Egyptians. 'They quit feud-
ing, and naturally, they wrote things about
each other — ^which I saw when I read a
couple more pages.

There was a chapter in picture writing,
like on the base of that green statue of
Sekhmet. Of course, I couldn’t make head
nor tail of those hieroglyphics, but that
didn’t hurt at all. 'The book was written
for Hebrew magicians, and some of them
couldn’t read Egyptian either. 'There was
1 line of Hebrew to explain exactly how
you said each line of picture writing.

’Then I began to get sore!

Uncle Simon had been mocking me right
along — making me chop wood, work in

the garden, just like a slave. I was his
heir, only he wouldn’t die. Not for him-
dreds of years, maybe never at all! I read
it all. How fire walking, fire breathing,
dealing with fire spirits burns the dust-to-
dust things out of a man, and what’s left
can’t die — providing he doesn’t get killed
while he’s practising.

I began to see why he was hankering to
talk to Sekhmet. That was the last step,
the one he hadn’t been able to make, not
even with all his studying. Shucks, I’d be
an apprentice all my life, and neither me
nor any of our kinfolk would get ary a
nickel of Uncle Simon’s fortune!

That made me boiling mad. I got up and
began cussing to myself and shaking my
fist toward the ceiling, which was shivering
a little from the snoring upstairs. It was so
loud, I wondered if she could hear me un-
less I shouted.

But I went over and faced the graven
image. 'The eyes weren’t like those on
General Lee’s statue in the square in Mari-
etta. 'They seemed to be looking and see-
ing. I was scared for a minute. My mouth
was dry, and I couldn’t pronounce the
words. A lion is sometliing that makes a
man shrivel up inside when he looks at
one, even if it’s just carved. It’s a symbol,
I guess, not just an animal. But I felt bet-
ter when I remembered how lovely Selch-
met was when she took oflF her mask.

I don’t know exactly why I faced that
graven image. It wasn’t necessary, accord-
ing to the book. 'The path of fire would
open up, no matter where you were.

So I began to read out loud, and made
motions with my hands, like it said to do.
Shucks, I can’t say it in English. It can’t be
said except in those dead languages. ’That’s
why they’re dead. The people that used to
speak them got killed ofiF, practising such
things and making mistakes. No wonder
I was sweating and shaking when I started.

TTien my voice steadied. The oak ceiling
threw the sound back, like I was talking

APPRENTICE MAGICIAN

into a well. I didn’t hear Uncle Simon
snoring any more. The echoes played tricks
with each other, and v/ith my ears. It’s
funny how pronouncing some words makes
your chest and stomach shake like a busted
clock-spring. You feel it all the way to
your ankles when you say things exactly
right.

That’s how I knew I was getting the
v/ords so she could understand. I wasn’t
trembling a bit any more. At times I
thought I must have bass drums and pipe
organs in my stomach. It was nearly tear-
ing me to pieces, but I was so happy I
could have danced up and down.

Funny little lights cropped up all around
the graven image, like the fires you see in
swamps and graveyards at night. 'They
seemed to be coming out of the air and
crowding around. She wasn’t green any
more, and my eyes v/ere getting so sharp I
could see that tire little bits of smooth stone
had spaces betwixt them. They must have
been the pieces the teacher called mole-
cules, in the chemistry class, though that
never made sense to me until right this
minute.

I didn’t need the book any more. I
dropped it and made motions v/ith both
hands. I knew exactly what to say, and I
wasn’t alv/ays repeating what I’d read. The
first thing I knew, you could throw your
hat between those little grains of stone. No,
that wasn’t quite it, either. They v/eren’t
that far apart, really, only I could see be-
tween them. They hung together loosely,
lilce a thick fog.

A shining fog it was. Trembling and
twisting. It became like fire that kept a
shape. Then all the flames and light made
an arch, and Sekhmet was sitting there,
with a woman’s face, all sweet and smiling.

T he roof must have lifted when I spoke
that last line. The soimd in my ears
was like grass fires, and howling winds
and whanging cymbals. She got up from

her throne. I never saw such little feet. I
could have put both of them in my coat
pocket. She must have worn shoes all her
life, and never followed a plow or hoed
tobacco. Not with those tiny hands.

And proud, too. Tier nose wasn’t exactly
bent, but it wasn’t straight. Her nostrils
flared like a high-stepping horse’s. She had
a chin that v/as little and a bit pointed. It
was her cheek-bones that gave her face that
shape.

I just stood there and looked at her,
kind of stupid. Maybe I hadn’t ought to
stare that way, but the dress she wore was
thinner than a cambric handkerchief. Prob-
ably it was all right in private. I liked it a
lot, and she saw I did. 'That made her smile
some more.

When she spoke, it was easy to under-
stand, though it wasn’t English. Or maybe
I just read her thoughts and watched her
lips. She seemed to know what I was
thinking, anyway.

"Listen, m’am,’’ I said to her, all shaky
and in a hurry. I had to talk quick before
I forgot what I wanted to tell her. "My
Uncle Simon’s been muttering around
about you and he’s a magician and if you
don’t look out, the old sculpin’s going to
catch you and ’’

I couldn’t think of a polite way to say it,
but women sort of understand things, just
like children and cats and dogs. She up
and kissed me, meaning I didn’t have to
tell her any more. She wasn’t a flaming fog
now. She was solid, and she smelled like
all kinds of flowers and spices and that per-
fume they sell at the dime store bade home.

"I can’t take you into the Land of Fire,’’
she told me. "Not tonight. You couldn’t
stand it. You’ve got to study some more.
But I liked you the minute I saw you walk-
ing over the coals out in the yard. You
weren’t a bit afraid.’’

I pretty nearly laughed right out. She
didn’t know everything, either. I was
scared silly, only I was riled at Unci*

WEIRD TALES

Simon, mocking me. So I said to Sekhmet,
"M’am, he’s stubborn and he’s smart.
You’d better hide somewhere till I learn
more spells, or he’ll grab you and I’ll get
riled. Then we’ll quarrel, and I wouldn’t
have a chance with a master magician.”

"Panther,” she whispered, "don’t worry.
Why do you suppose he’s never seen me,
with all the studying and practising he’s
done? I promise you, I won’t let him into
the Land of Fire.”

"Couldn’t he sneak in?” I was worfied
about that.

She sighed, and her eyes were sort of
sad. Then she smiled, and this time she
showed her teeth, just for a second. I was
glad she was looking past me when she did
that. Somehow, it was like a cat thinking
about something to eat.

Sekhmet looked back at me, and now
she was sw'eet again. But all of a sudden,
there was a gosh-awful crackling and roar-
ing, and fire spinning like a pinwheel. I
felt like someone had hit me over the head
with a maul, and I thought I was looking
right into the sun.

I tried to grab Sekhmet to go with her,
but she wasn’t there. My hands were
empty, and I stiunbled to the floor. Then
I heard Uncle Simon’s voice, and I got up
to my knees. But I was so dizzy I grabbed
at the green statue. It was all solid again,
and awfully hot. Seldimet was gone.

"You young fool,” Uncle Simon said,
"get on your feet.”

He had a razor strop and I thought he
was going to whale me. His face was pink,
but it wasn’t babyish, and his eyes v/eren’t
kind. He was downright sore, and if I
hadn’t been one of the family, I know he’d
have killed me or tried to. I looked at him,
but didn’t know what to say.

"It’s lucky I came along and stopped
that spell. Do you know if you’d read an-
other line, you might have been burned to
a cinder and the whole house along with
you?”

"No, sir.”

"What’s more,” he went on, "you got
that girl on the brain. I knew you had, so
I pretended I was snoring, and I left that
book out, on purpose, to see if you’d sneak
in to practise.”

Uncle Simon was smart, and I was a
plain fool. He’d been listening to every-
thing. Nothing was a secret now. He
hefted the razor strop like he was going to
larrup me. 'Tlien he smiled, sort of sour,
and he said, "I’m not whipping you,
though your father would, if he knew you
weren’t minding me. But if you don’t do
what I say. I’ll just kick you out of the
house, and you can go back home and then
see what happens.”

Talking to Sekhmet had done something
funny to me. I’d never dared t;ilk back.
Not until this minute. Then I shook my
fist and took a step forward. "By heck,” I
hollered, "you can’t boss me around even
if you are my dad’s uncle! Maybe I’m not
twenty-one, but I’m grown up and there
ain’t anybody going to whale me. I don’t
want your damn money. None of us do!”

He backed away, looked puzzled, and he
let the razor strop hang along his leg. I
felt kind of ashamed. He was an old man.

Then Uncle Simon said, "You be a good
boy. Panther. You’ve been ambitious and
hard-working. You’re not as dumb as you
look, and I’ve been thinking of making
you my partner.”

"You mean. I’ll be a master magician,
and not an apprentice?”

You see, I wasn’t as diunb as I looked.
After what Sekhmet told me about prac-
tising some more, I wasn’t going to lose
such a good chance.

"That’s right. Panther.” He picked up
the book I’d dropped and set it on the
table. He sort of smiled to himself and
nodded. Then he said, "You go to bed
now, while I think about this. You’ve got
to be initiated before you become a master
m.'igician.”

APPRENTICE MAGICIAN

"You mean, fasting and meditating and
all that?”

He nodded and pointed to the door.

T WENT to my room. He was awfully
foxy, and I wasn’t quite sure if I had
fooled him. But maybe he didn’t think I
knew I was pretty close to being a master
magician already. Shucks, you don’t always
have to be initiated. Some people can skip
a grade. I heard of them doing that at
school. .

One thing I was certain of. He didn’t
allow for me having read as much as I
really had. Tliat was because I hadn’t let
on about knowing that if you practise fire-
walking and the like, you live for ages and
ages and maybe never do die. You see,
he’d figured I’d be so set on talking to
Sekhmet that I wouldn’t read further than
the first couple pages.

But it v/ould end up in a fight. I knew
that. I felt kind of sorry. He was a nice
fellow when he wasn’t unreasonable about
Sekhmet. Just like my grandfather, fixing
to shoot the young fellows who were play-
ing up to Lily Mae.

I studied like all get out. Once in a
while, I used to sit there, tired and dizzy,
wondering what the folks back home
would say if they could see me conjuring.
But what’d really open their eyes was
where Uncle Simon’s money came from.
He just up and made gold bars out of the
air, or mud, or something.

I found that out when some revenue
men came in to find out where he got it.
He said, "Gentlemen, I’ll show you,” and
he did. They came out looking goggle-
eyed and muttering.

One of them said, "But you can t do
this, Mr. Buckner. You’ll wreck the whole
Government, flooding the treasury.”

"No law agin it,” Uncle Simon an-
swered. He winked, and jabbed him in the
ribs.

"Listen, bub. When a man gets to

be my age, he has sense enough to know
that too much of a good thing is worse
than not enough. You suppose I’d make so
much gold you could use it for paving, in-
stead of asphalt?. You might, but 1
wouldn’t.”

"Mr. Buckner,” the other one said, foxy-
like, "someone’s going to break in here
and steal the recipe, and he might get pig-
gish. Hov/ about putting the paper in a
bank?”

Uncle Simon laughed right out. '"rhe
recipe isn’t written down. I carry it in my
head. And you young fellows better not
snitch that bar you seized, or I’ll tell the
chief revenue man on you.”

That’s the kind of man I was dealing
with. Those revenue fellows had been to
college, and they were about as stupid as
foxes, and they couldn’t do a thing with
my uncle. I reckon he really didn’t have
the recipe written down on paper.

But most of the time, I was too busy to
sit there and wonder about the home folks.
You know, a fellow just gets used to being
a magician. And I was learning faster than
Uncle Simon suspected. I played dumb,
which was easy.

I naturally couldn’t have picked up so
many tricks by just studying. Sekhmet was
telling me things.

She wasn’t speaking in my ear. She was
whispering into my mind. I never saw her,
never heard her, though once in a while I
could almost smell her. That sweet stuff
she wore in her hair. It must have been
what they called frankincense and such-
like in the Sunday school lessons. From
Arabia. Like the Queen of Sheba sent King
Solomon. I was getting so I knew more
than the preacher back home.

But I had to hurry up. Uncle Simon was
fixing to play a dirty trick, making me do
all the work, and helping him conjure, and
then never dying nor giving his kinfolks
any gold bars. He said the stuff isn’t good
for people who don’t work for it, unless

WEIRD TALES

they’re magicians. I knew I had to move
fast.

This time I climbed out of my window
and took the book with me, along with a
little flashlight. I knew now I didn’t have
to stand and look at the graven image.
Sekhmet would open the road to the Land
of Fire no matter where I was, as long as I
said the right words. I didn’t even have to
holler the words. Just as long as I held my
mouth right, they’d be good at a whisper.

So I went to the far corner of the big
yard, where the old stable was. It stood
cross^vise of the house and close to the
back of it.

I SET the flashlight on a sill where it
would shine on the book and then I
started reading. The reason I needed it at
all was because it had directions on what to
do when you get ’way into the Land of
Fire. In case Sekhmet didn’t show up then
and there. I’d have to know what to say to
the fire spirits. Magic is just like conjuring
away warts, or making a neighbor’s cow go
dry, back home, only it’s a lot more serious.

The difference is, a magician can get
himself killed, if he makes a mistake. But
he doesn’t have to wait for the dark of the
moon, nor sft around in graveyards.

I began reading. It happened faster this
time. First a little spinning spot of light
like a whirlpool in a stream. It spread, and
changed colors, and all those soimds began
shaking me apart. But I had learned that
nobody else could hear them. Couldn’t
hear anything except what I was speaking,
and I kept my voice low.

Sekhmet came walking down a tunnel of
shivering light. It reached so far that the
other end of it was small, like the inside of
an ice-cream cone. Twisting and spin-
ning. When she saw me, she began to run,
with her arms reaching out. Then she got
impatient, and she picked up her skirt to
her knees so she could stretch her legs.

Her corkscrew curls were all blue and

flaming. I knew now that the sweetness
wasn’t perfume. It was the smell of pure
fire — the stuff lightning is made of. She
was so beautiful I was almost scared. She
wouldn’t let me kiss her.

"We’ve got to hurry.” She was breath-
ing real quick, and she caught my hand.
"You shouldn’t have called me tonight.”

Sekhmet turned around and pulled me
after her. I got long legs, but I could
hardly keep up. It was like being shot out
of a gun. My breath was hammered right
back into my teeth, and her curls reached
back. "Wliat — ^what — what’s tlie matter?”
I asked her.

"Your uncle’s been laying for you, and
he’s a-chasing you with a book in his hand.”

I looked back. There was Uncle Simon,
laughing to himself. He was scrambling
through the clouds of fire that were closing
up, ’way behind us. We must have been a
million miles away from the barn, and if
he’d not gotten there when he did, he’d
have been left. But here he was, with those
short legs pumping up and down. He was
waving one . hand, and reading from his
book while he ran. It got me worried, see-
ing anyone his age so spry. He was mad
and happy. That’s a funny way for a man
to look. I guess he was riled because Sekh-
met wouldn’t wait for him, and glad he’d
caught us in time.

Ahead I saw fires that made those in
back of us look like a pack of matches. 'The
flames had faces. They had hands. They
were leaning like rushes in a wind, closing
in to block the path.

And beyond them everything was danc-
ing. The roaring and crying and twittering
sounds began to have color. I could feel
the flames reaching into me. I was part of
them now, and they wouldn’t kill me. It
was like being full of corn whisky and
going to a camp meeting and being struck
by lightning, all at once.

But Uncle Simon was right on our heels.
Short legs weren’t stopping him. Sekhmet

APPRENTICE MAGICIAN

was sinking knee-deep in purple fire. She
was choking for breath. And all of a sud-
den, I sobered up and noticed my feet were
getting heavy. I stumbled.

She wiggled herself clear of the swamp
of flame that was clogging our legs. She
reached out a:nd tried to pull me up. Uncle
Simon was roaring at us.

"Get your hands off that girl, or you’ll
drown in fire! You young squirt, maybe
you can open the road, but I followed you
and you got not a chance. Not with me in-
side."

Sekhmet looked like she was going to
cry. She was panting and pulling, but it
didn’t do any good. I was just making her
sink deeper. And the fires we’d been run-
ning toward were crowding forward some-
thing aw^ful, like they were mad at us.

"Don’t get scared,” she screamed. "I
can take care of myself."

But I knew she couldn’t. Uncle Simon
had a trick that wasn’t in the books. He
was so close now that I could see the pic-
ture-writing on the paper he had. He was
giving me one diance to shut up before he
began singing an incantation in Egyptian.

"He’ll call Osiris and all the other
gods!’’ Sekhmet moaned. "He know''s their
right names, and they’ll help him against
me."

Then I lost my head. I pulled my hand
?.-.vay from Sekhmet, and began reading. I
shouted him down, and anyway, he was
too surprised to make a sound. It was like
when my dad up and knocked Grandfather
down to prove he’d grown up.

What I did was read my spell backward.

All the banked-up flames began pouring
out like I’d knocked the bottom from a
barrel. The whole Land of Fire and every-
thing in it came a-roaring. It tumbled me
over and over. For a second I thought I
was dead. I couldn’t see and couldn’t hear
and couldn’t smell anything.

'Hie next thing I knew, I was sitting

2‘y

against the high wall, all doubled up and
feeling busted to pieces. I didn’t know but
what a couple of mules had cut loose and
kicked me silly.

The bam and the house were blazing.
You’d have thought someone had doused
them with gasoline and touched it off all
over at once. I ran around, yelling for my
uncle and Sekhmet, but the fire just howled
and crackled.

Maybe I did say you couldn’t get over
that wall without flying. I didn’t have
wings, but I made it. My hands were all
torn and my pants ripped, and I fell so
hard I couldn’t move, for a minute. I had
to crawl toward the road. And the smoke
reached after me, and so did the blaze.

That crazy second when I made the fire
go backward scared me. .When a magi-
cian’s scared, he loses his power. I think
what really made me that way was know-
ing that I was finishing Uncle Simon,
catching him off guard before he could
fight back. It was no longer than a wink,
my wanting to kill him for trying to take
Sekhmet. But that kind of a thought is
wrong, and makes things go wild.

I don’t know why I wasn’t killed, unless
she got me out of it.

When people and motorcycle ofiicers
came a-helling, they allowed it was an* ex-
plosion. They didn’t ask me mu<di. I
looked too dumb, which was lucky,

T NEVER saw Uncle Simon again. Every*
thing inside the wall burned to ashes.
And I couldn’t call Sekhmet. The books
and everything were gone, and I was
afraid, anyway, to try it.

We didn’t inherit Uncle Simon’s money.
The new will was burned, and the old one
was still in the bank. So they built another
college in California, and when I went
home. Dad whaled me within an inch of
my life for not saving the will when the
house burned down.

By P. SCHUYLER MILLER

A colossus of gold strode over the moumains, bent on conquest, and the
murdered body of Nicholas Svadin, Dictator of Europe, rose from
his bier to rule the world from his palace in Budapest

P EDANTS spout glibly of probabil-
ity, quibble and hedge, gulp at
imagined gnats. Nothing is impos-
sible to mathematics. Only improbable.
Only very improbable.

Only impossibly improbable.

Earth, for example, is improbable.
Planets should not logically exist, nor on
existing planets life. Balances of forces
are too impossibly delicate; origins too com-
plexly coincidental. But Earth does exist
— and on Earth, life.

We see Earth and we see life, or we
see something, however improbable, and
call it Earth and life. We forget proba-
bilities and mathematics and live by our
senses, by our common sense. Our com-
mon sense sees Earth and it sees life, and
in a kind of darkened mirror it sees men — •
but men are utterly improbable!

Ooze to worms and worms to fishes.
Fishes to frogs and frogs to lizards. Lizards
to rats and rats to men, and men at last to
bloated, futuristic Brains. Brains are im-
probable: brains and senses, and above all,
common sense. Not impossible — because
nothing is impossible — but so improbable
that nowhere in all the improbable stars,
nowhere in all the improbably empty space
between the stars, is there room for other
Earths and other rats and men.

Nowhere — life.

« * * • «

An improbable man is drunk. A man
26

with improbably carrot-colored hair, with
an improbably enormous nose. With a cold
in that nose. With a quart of potato rot-
gut to encourage the utter improbability of
that cold and that nose, and of the world
in general. With a plane’s rudder bar under
his feet and a plane’s stick between his
knees, and the Chilean Andes improbably
gigantic underneath.

A man is tight. And coincident with
that tightness he is witness to the Im-
probable:

F riday, the 25th of July: James
Arthur Donegan, thirty-odd, red-
haired, American, has witnessed the Im-
probable.

A cliff, hard and quartz-white, soften-
ing, puddling, pulping away in a vast
heaped monstrousness fat with thick ropes
of gold. Raw gold, yellow in the Andean
sunlight. Mother-gold, knotted in wadded
worm-nests in the shining sock. Medusas
of golden fascination. Gold burning in
hemp-dream arabesques in the naked cliff-
face, in the white quartz that is pulping,
dripping, sloughing into monstrosity.

Jim Donegan tipped his bottle high
and lifted his plane out of insanity. Jim
Donegan’s brain reeled with the raw white
fire of potato whisky and the raw yellow
luster of fat gold. And with the gold a
quartz cliff melting, puddling — stone into
pudding — sense into nonsense. . . .

SPAWN

Jim Donegal! tipped his bottle again and
remembered to forget. Landed in San-
tiago. Disappeared.

# * * « •

An improbable man is sober. A thou-
sand improbable men and a thousand even
less credible women, and of them all only
a hundred drunk. Only another hundred
tight, or boiled, or mildly blotto. And half
a thousand improbable men and women,
drunk and sober, see and hear and photo-
graph the Improbable eating whales:

W EDNESDAY, the 20th of August:

Richard Chisholm, fifty, grizzled,
British, has entered the Improbable in his
log — has stirred one wrinkled cerebrum,
accustomed to the investigation of proba-
bilities, in unaccustomed ways.

Zoologist Heinrich Wilhelm Sturm
leaned with polished elbows on a polished
rail and stared at a burnished sea. Daugh-
ter Maria Elsa Sturm leaned and stared
beside him. Secretary Rudolf Walter
Weltmann leaned and stared, but not at
waves.

Waves lifted lazily along a great ship’s
flank. Waves swelled and fell unbroken
with listless, oily languor of old dreams.
And caught in the warm web of the sun
and the malachitic waxenness of the waves
a score of whales basked, rolling and blow-
ing, under the weary eyes of Zoologist
Heinrich Sturm.

The molten, lucent fluid of the sea
clotted and cooled. Color went swiftly
out of it: greenstone to apple jade, jade
into chrysoprase, prase into beryl spume.
It folded in xmeven, glistening hillocks of
illogical solidity. And Zoologist Heinrich
Sturm choked on his German oaths as a
score of drowsing whales fought suddenly
with death!

Acres of empty sea became quivering
pulp. Gray puflfs of it pushed out of the
waves and sank again. Horrible, avid
ripples shuddered and smoothed across

its sleekness. And twenty whales were
caught: gigantic, blunted minnows wal-
lowing in a pudding mold; titanic ebon
microbes studding an agar bowl. Drowned
by the gray-green stuff that oozed into
their gullets and choked their valved blow-
holes! Strangled and stifled by it.

Swallowed and eaten by it!

The sound of it was unreal — the whoosh
of blown breath splattering jellied ooze,
the soft, glutting gurgle of flowing pulp,
the single soughing sob as giant flukes
pulled loose to fling aloft and smash into
the rippled greenness that was darkening
with the shadow of the ship.

One last sucking sigh — the fling of one
mighty glistening upsilon against the sky —
the babble of half a thousand human be-
ings gulping breath. And Zoologist Hein-
rich Sturm, staring through thick, dark
lenses at the blob of gray-green jelly on
his wrist, at the spatter of jelly on the
deck at his feet, and swearing happily his

guttural German oaths. . . .

# * « * •

A dead man lay in state.

And I was there:

F riday, the 22nd of August: Nich-
olas Svadin lies for the third day in
solemn state before the people of the
world.

Nicholas Svadin, Dictator of Mittel-
Europa, lay waxen white under the heaped
callas, under the August sun of Budapest.
Nicholas Svadin, son of a Slavic butcher,
grandson of German fiihrers, lay with six
soft-nosed bullets in his skull and breast.
Nicholas Svadin, whose genius for govern-
ment had won the loyalty instead of the
hatred of nations, whose greed had fed
on the conflict of languages and races,
whose shadow had covered Europe from
the Volga to the Rhine. Nicholas Svadin,
who had held all Europe under his humane
tyranny save for the bickering fringe of
Latin states and the frozen, watchful

WEIRD TALES

silence of the Anglo-Scandinavian con-
federacy.

Nicholas Svadin, dead in the 'August
sun, with all Europe trembling in metasta-
ble balance under the fast-unfolding wings
of Chaos.

And four men were the world. And
four men were afraid.

They stood as they had stood when
Svadin’s great rolling voice burst in a
bloody cough and his great body, arms
upflung in the compassionate gesture of
the Cross, slumped like a greasy rag on
the white steps of the Peace Hall. They
stood with the world before them, and
the world’s dead master, and the ■ysion
of the morrow brooded in their eyes.

Four men were the world: Rasmussen,
bearded, blond, steel-eyed premier of An-
glo-Scandia; Nasuki at his elbow, little
and cunning with the age-old subtlety of
che East; Gonzales, sleek, olive-skinned heir
of the Neo-Latin dictator; Moorehead the
American, lean and white-headed and old-
est of the four. Two and two in the
August sun with the sickly scent of the
death-lilies in their nostrils, and I with my
camera marking Time’s slow march.

I marked the four where they stood by
the open bier. I marked the spilling lines
of mourners that flowed in black runnels
through the silent streets of Budapest I
marked the priests where they came, slow-
treading with the stateliness of an elder
civilization.

I marked the resurrection of the dead!

Nicliolas Svadin rose on his white-
banked bier and stared at the world of
men.

Nicholas Svadin rose with the white
wax softening in his massive jowls and
the round blue scar of a soft-nosed slug
between his corpse’s eyes. Nicholas Sva-
din swung his thick legs with an ugly
stiffness from the bier and stood alone,
alive, staring at mankind, and spoke four
words — once, slowly, then again;

"I — am — ^Nicholas — Svadin.

"/ am Nicholas Svadin!”

And men had found a god.

• « * • •

Svadin Bad been a man, born of wo-
man, father of men and women, the
greatest Earth had known. His genius was
for mankind, and he enfolded humanity
in his kindly arms and was the father of
a world.

Svadin was a man, killed as men are
killed, but on the third day he rose from
his bed of death and cried his name, aloud
for the world to hear.

Svadin the man became Svadin the god.

I photographed the world-assembly at
Leningrad when Svadin called together the
scientists of the Earth and gave them the
world to mold according to their liking.
I marked the gathering in America’s halls
of Congress when the rulers of the world
gave their nations into his bloodless hands
and received them again, reborn into a
new order of democracy. I watched, and
my camera watched, as the world poured
itself into these new-cut patterns of civili-
zation and found them good. And then,
because men are men and even a Golden
'Age will pall at last, I turned to other
things:

A bathysphere torn from its cable in
mid-deep.

Fishing-fleets returning with empty
holds after weeks and months at sea.

Eels gone from their ancient haunts, and
salmon spawning in dozens where once
streams had been choked with their lusting
bodies.

Cattleships lost in mid-Atlantic, and
then a freighter, and another, gone with-
out a trace.

Two men and a girl whose names were
on the rolls of every ship that crossed and
recrossed the haunted waters of the North
Atlantic.

And from the South vague rumors of
a god.

SPAWN

TITIAMI’S sun-bathed beaches were
black with human insects. Miami’s
tropic night throbbed with the beat of
music and the sway and glide of dancers.
Maria Elsa Sturm glided and swayed in
the strong, young arms of Rudolf Welt-
mann and laughed with her night-blue eyes
and poppy lips, but Heinrich Sturm stood
alone in the star-strewn night and stared
broodingly at the sleeping sea. Maria
basked in the smoldering noonday sun, a
slender golden flame beside the swarthy
handsomeness of her companion, but the
old masked eyes of Heinrich stared beyond
her beauty at the sea.

Long waves swelled sleepily against the
far blue of the Gulf Stream and sank and
swelled again and creamed in tepid foam
along the sands. Gay laughter rippled and
prismatic color played with kaleidoscopic
lavishness under the golden sim. Wave
after wave of the sea, rising and falling
and rising against the sky — and a wave
that did not fall!

It came as the others had come, slowly,
blue-green and glistening in the sunlight.
It rose and fell with the ceaseless surge
of the Atlantic at its back, and rose again
along the white curve of the beach. It
was like a v/all of water, miles in length,
rushing shoreward with the speed of a
mnning man. Men ran from it and were
caught.

Spots of bright color spun in its slug-
gish eddies and went down. Tongues
of it licked out over the warm sands, leav-
ing them naked and bone-white, and
flowed lazily back into the monstrous thing
that lay and gorged in the hot sun.

It was a sea-green tumulus, vast as all
ocean. It was a league-long hillock of
green ooze, apple- jade-green, chrysoprase-
green, gray-green of frosted flint. It was
a thing of Famine — not out of Bibles, not
out of the histories of men — a thing that
lay like a pestilence of the sea upon the
warm, white beaches of Miami, black with

humanity running, screaming, milling — =.
thing that was greedy and that fed!

Tatters of bright rag swirled in its slug-
gish eddies, oozed from its gelid depths;
fragments of white bone, chalk-white and
etched, rose and were spewed on the white
sands. Arms of it flowed like hot wax,
knowingly, hungrily. Veins in it, pale
like clear ribbons of white jade in green
translucency, ran blossom-pink, ran rose,
ran crimson-red.

Maria Elsa Sturm lay in the white sand,
in the warm sun, in the strong arms of
swarthy Rudolf Weltmann, under the un-
seeing eyes of Heinrich Sturm. Zoologist
Heinrich Sturm woke to the world with
horror in his eyes, horror in his brain,
shrieking horror come stark into his life.
Zoologist Heinrich Sturm saw tongues of
the green sea-stuff licking over Miami’s
bone-white sands, supping up morsels of
kicking life, spewing out dead things that
were not food. 2k)6logist Heinrich Sturm
saw the Incredible, mountain-high, suck
up the golden straw that was Maria Sturm,
suck up the brown, strong straw that was
Rudolf Weltmann, swell like a flooding
river against the sea-wall at his feet, purl-
ing and dimpling with greedy inner cur-
rents; saw it ebb and lie drowsing, relish-
ing its prey; saw the bright, scarlet rag
that had wrapped Maria Sturm oozing up
out of its green horridness; saw the black
rag that had clothed Rudolf; saw two
white, naked skulls that dimpled its glis-
tening surface before they were sloughed
away among tide-rows of eaten bones.

League-long and hill-high the wave that
was not a wave lay glutting on young
flesh, supping up hot blood. League-long
and hill-high, with the little insect myriads
of mankind running and screaming, stand-
ing and dying; with the buzzing wings of
mankind circling over it and men’s little
weapons peppering at its vast, full-fed
imperturbability. Bombs fell like grain
from a sower’s fist, streaming shadows

WEIRD TALES

of them raining out of the bare blue sky.
Vast sound shattered the ears of gaping
men, crushing in windows, shaking down
ceilings, thundering with boastful ven-
geance.

Fountains of green jelly rose stringily;
wounds like the pit of Kimberly opened
and showed sea-green, shadowed depths,
stirring as the sea stirs, closing as the
sea closes, with no scar. Bricks cram-
bled in little streams from a broken cor-
nice; glass tinkled from gaping windows;
men milled and babbled and stared in
fascination at Death. And Zoologist
Heinrich Sturm stood alone, a gray old
rock against which the scrambling tide beat
and broke, seeing only the golden body
of Maria Elsa Sturm, the laughing, up-
turned face of Maria Elsa Sturm, the night-
blue eyes and poppy lips of Maria Elsa
Sturm. . . .

Long waves swelled sleepily against the
far blue of the Gulf Stream, and sank and
swelled again, and creamed in soft foam
against the bone-v/hite sands. Wave after
wave, rising and falling and rising higher
with the flooding tide. Waves rising to
lap the sea-green tumulus, to bathe its red-
veined monstrousness whose crimson rills
were fading to pink, to gray, to lucent
white. Waves laving it, tickling its mon-
strous palate, pleasing it mightily; waves
into which it subsided and left Miami’s
white beaches naked for a league save for
the windrows of heaped bones and the
moist, bright rags that had been men’s
condescension to the morality of men.

Cameras ground clickingly along that
league-long battlefront while Horror fed;
microphones gathered the scream of the
sight of Death from a thousand quavering
lips — but not mine.

Men turned away, sickened, to turn and
stare again with horrid fascination at the
wet white windrows that were girls’
bones, and men’s bones, and children’s —
but not 1.

Other eyes saw that vision of the In-
credible; other lips told me of it when I
asked. I did not see Zoologist Heinrich
Sturm when he turned his back on the
drift of smiling skulls and went wearily
with the human stream, when he paid with
creased and hoarded notes the accounts of
Maria Elsa Sturm, deceased, of Rudolf
Walter Weltmann, deceased, of Heinrich
Wilhelm Sturm.

I did not see Zoologist Heinrich Sturm
when he stepped out of the hotel with his
battered suitcase, plastered with paper
labels, his roimd black hat, his thick dark
glasses, and disappeared.

No one who saw cared.

'There was no one, now, to care. . . .
*****

Out of the South the rumor of a god!

O UT of the Andes word of a god of
Gold, stalking the mountain passes
with Wrath and Vengeance smoking in
his fists. A god wrathful in the presence
of men and the works of men. A god
vengeful of man’s slavery of rock and soil
and metal, jealous of man’s power over
the inanimable. A god growing as the
mountains grow, with bursting, jutting
angularities shifting, fusing, molding
slowly into colossal harmonies of form and
function, with growing wisdom in his
golden skull and growing power in his
crystal fists. A god for the weak, con-
temptuous of the weak but pitiless to the
strong — straddling adobe huts to trample
the tin-roof huddle of shacks at the lip of
some gaping wound in the ancient flesh
of Earth.

A god with power tangible and cruel,
alien to puling doctrines of white men’s
love of men. A god speaking voicelessly
out of the distance of things that awoke
old memories, roused old grandeurs in
the blood of small brown men and in
other men in whose veins the blood of
brown kings flowed.

SPAWN

A god of red Justice. A god of Revo-
lution!

A god to bring fear again to men!

In the South — Revolution. Little brown
men swarming in the mountains, pouring
into the valleys, hacking, clubbing, stab-
bing, burning. Revolution in small places
without names. Revolution in mud vil-
lages with names older than America.
Revolution flaming in tov/ns named in
the proud Castilian tongue — in cities where
white women promenaded and white men
ogled, and brown men were dust in the
gutters. Revolution in Catamarca, in
Tucuman, in Santiago del Estero. Revo-
lution half a thousand miles away, in
Potosi, in Cochabamba, In Quillacolla.
Revolution sweeping the royal cities of the
Andes — Santiago, La Paz, Lima, Quito,
Bogota! Revolution stalking the up-
thrusting spine of a continent like a pesti-
lence, sucking in crazed brown warriors
from the monies, from the pampas, from
barren deserts and steaming jungles. Blood
of brown ancestors rising beneath white
skins, behind blue eyes. Revolution like
a flame sweeping tlirough brown man and
white and mostly-white and half -white and
very-little-white and back to the brown
blood of ancient, feathered kings! Guns
against machetes. Bayonets against razor-
whetted knives. Poison gas against poison
darts.

And in their wake the tread of a god
of Gold!

Revolution out of Chile, out of Argen-
tine, into Bolivia, into Peru of the Incas.
Revolution out of the hot inland trough
of the Amazon, rippling through Brazil,
through the Guianas, into Ecuador, into
Colombia, into Venezuela. Revolution
choking the ditch of Panama, heaping the
bigger ditch of Managua with bleeding
corpses, seething through the dank forests
of Honduras, Guatemala, Yucatan. A
continent overwhelmed and nothing to
show why. A continent threatened, and

only the whispered rumor of a god of
Gold!

Men like me went to see, to hear, to
tell what they had seen and heard. Men
like me crept into the desolate places
where Revolution had passed, and found
emptiness, found a continent trampled
under the running, bleeding feet of a
myriad of small brown men driven by a
Fear greater than the fear of Death —
crushed and broken under the relentless,
marching hooves of the god of Gold.

A village, then a city — a nation, then
a continent — and the armies of the white
nations mobilizing along the border of
Mexico, in the arid mountains of the
American Southwest, watching — waiting
— fearing none knew what. A necklace
of steel across the throat of the white man’s
civilization.

Repeated circumstance becomes phe-
nomenon; repeated phenomena are law. I
found a circumstance that repeated again
and again, that became phenomenal, that
became certainty. A man with red hair,
with a bulbous nose, witli a bird’s knowl-
edge of the air, and an old man, peering
through thick glasses, muttering in his
beard. How they came together no man
knew. Where they went men could only
guess. The wings of their giant plane slid
down out of the sunset, rose black against
the sunrise, burned silver-white in the
blaze of noon. 'They went — they returned
— and none questioned their coming or
going.

War on the edge of America. War be-
tween white men and brown — and more
than man behind the brown. Death rained
from the sky on little brown men scatter-
ing in open deserts, on green jungles where
brown men might be lurking, on rotten
rock where brown men might have tun-
neled. Death poisoned the streams and
the rock-hewn cenotes; death lay like a
yellow fog in the arroyos and poured
through gorges where brown men lay

WEIRD TALES

hidden behind rocks and in crannies of
the rock. Flame swept over the face of
Mexico and the brown hordes scattered
and gave way in retreat, in flight, in utter
rout. White fury blazed where brown
hatred had smoldered. Brown bodies
sprawled flayed and gutted where white
corpses had hung on wooden crosses, where
white hearts had smoked in the noon sun
and white men’s blood had dribbled down
over carved stone altars. Hell followed
Hell.

Then from Tehiuntepec a clarion chal-
lenge, checking the rout, checking the
white wave of vengeance. The challenge
of a god!

Planes droned in the bare blue sky over
Oaxaca, riddling the moimtains with
death. Polite, trim generals sat and drank
and talked in half a dozen languages
wherever there was shade. 'The sun blazed
down on the plaza of Oaxaca in the time
of siesta, and the grumble of war sank to
a lullaby. Then out of the mountains of
the east, rolling and rocking through the
naked hills, sounded the shouted challenge
of the god of Gold!

I HEARD it like a low thunder In the
east, and a German major at the next
table muttered "Donner!" I heard it again.
A Frenchman beside him looked up a mo-
ment from his glass. It came a third time,
growling against the silence, and the
roaring like the voice of Bashan in the
sky, and all up and down the shaded plaza
men were listening and wondering.

Far away, across the mountains in
Tehuantepec, the guns began to thud and
mutter, and in the radio shack behind us
a telegraph key was clicldng nervously. 'The
Frenchman was listening, his lips moving.
An English lieutenant strode in out of the
sun, saluted, melted into the shadow of
the colonnade.

Out of the East the challenge of a godt
I heard the triumphant, bull-beUied

shout thundering across the ranges as the
guns of Tehuantepec grumbled for the
last time. I saw a light that should not
be there — a mad, fanatic light — gleaming
in the eyes of an officer of Spanish name,
from the Mexican province of Zacatecas.
The German’s eyes were on him, and the
Frenchman’s, and those of the English
subaltern, following him as he stole away.
The wireless operator came out and saluted,
and handed a slip of yellow paper to the
Frenchman. He passed it, shrugging, to
the German. A Russian came and looked
over his shoulder, an Italian, an American,
a Japanese, and their heads turned slowly
to listen for the chuck and patter of distant
guns that they would never hear again.
And then, again, that voice of the moun-
tains bellowed its triumphant challenge,
stirring a cold current of dread in my veins
— in the veins of all men of Oaxaca — of
all men who heard it.

’The victorious god of Gold shouted his
challenge to Mankind, and in answer came
the distant burring of a plane in the north.

It passed over us and circled for a land-
ing outside the city. An army car raced
away and returned. I knew two of the
three men who climbed stiffly out of the
tonneau. I saw tall, red-headed air-fiend
Jim Donegan. I saw stooped, gray, bog-
gling Zoologist Fleinrich Sturm.

I saw Nicholas Svadin, once-dead mas-
ter of the world.

Svadin against the god of Gold!

Again that bull-throated, brazen thun-
der rolled across the ranges and I saw
Svadin’s blimt, hairless skull cocked side-
wise, listening. Old Fleinrich Sturm was
listening too, and Red Jim Donegan. But
I saw only Nicholas Svadin.

It was five full years since that August
day in Budapest. Wax w'as heavy in his
blue-white jowls. Wax v/eighted down
his heavy-lidded eyes. A puckered blue
hole probed his sleek white brow. His
great body was soft and bloated and his

SPAWN

stubby fingers blue under their cropped
nails. There was an acrid odor in the air,
the odor that heaped callas had hidden in
the sun of Budapest, that not even the
stench of a thousand sweating men could
hide under the sun of Mexico.

They talked togetlier — Svadin, the gen-
erals Sturm, Red Jim Donegan of Brook-
lyn. Donegan nodded, went to the waiting
car, disappeared into white moonlight.
Soon his great silver plane droned over-
head, heading into the north.

One day — two — three. We on the out-
side saw nothing of Svadin, but men of
all nations were at work in the bla2ing
sun and the velvet night, sawing, bolting,
riveting, building a vast contrivance of
wood and metal under the direction of
Heinrich Sturm. Four days — five, and at
last we stood at the edge of the man-made
city of Oaxaca, staring at that monstrous
apparatus and at the lone figure that stood
beside it — Svadin. His puffed blue fingers
went to the switch on its towering side,
and out of that giant thing thundered the
bellowed defiance of Mankind, hurled at
the giant Thing that walked the ranges,
bull-baiting the god of Gold!

Its vast clamor shuddered in the packed
earth underfoot. Its din penetrated the
wadding in our ears and driunmed relent-
lessly against our senses. It boomed and
thundered its contem.pt, and in answer that
other voice thundered beyond the blue-
tipped mountains. Hour after hour — until
madness seemed certain and madness was
welcome — until the sun lay low in a red
sky, painting the ranges — until only Svadin
and gray old Heinrich Sturm remained,
watching beside their vast, insulting, de-
fiant Voice. Then in the east a flicker of
light tipped the farthest ranges!

It was a creeping diamond of light above
the purple horizon. It was a needle of
white fire rising and falling above the
mountains, striding over valleys, vaulting
the naked ridges, growing and rising

higher and vaster and mightier against the
shadow of the coming night. It was a
pillar of scintillant flame over Oaxaca.

It was the god of Gold!

Q uartz is rock, and quartz is jelly,
and quartz is a crystal gem. Gold
is metal, and gold is color, and gold is the
greed of men. Beauty and fear — awe and
greed — the Thing over Oaxaca was a
column of crystal fires, anthropomorphic,
built out of painted needle-gems, with the
crimson and blue and smoky wine-hues of
colloidal gold staining its jeweled torso —
with veins and nerves and ducts of the fat
yellow gold of Earth — with a pudding of
blue quartz flowing and swelling and flex-
ing on its stony frame. It was a giant out
of mythery — a jinni out of hasheesh mad-
ness^ — a monster born of the Earth, thewed
with the stuff of EaJth, savagely jealous of
the parasitic biped mammals whose form
it aped. Its spiked hooves clashed on
the moimtain-tops with the clamor of
avalanches. Its flail-arms swung like a
flicking scourge, flaying the bare earth
of all that was alive. Its skull was a
crystal chalice wadded with matted gold,
brain-naked, set with eyes like the blue
sapphires of Burma, starred with inner
light.

It roared with the thunder of grind-
ing, tearing, grating atoms, with the sullen
voice of earthquakes. It was the specter
of Earth’s last vengeance upon delving,
burrowing, gutting little Man, the flea
upon her flesh. It stood, a moment, strad-
dling the horizon — and out of the north a
plane was winging, midge-small against
the watching stars. So high it was that
though the sun had gone and the shadow
of the Earth lay purple on the sky, its
wings were a sliver of light, dwindling,
climbing to that unimaginable height
where the rays of the vanished sun still
painted the shoulders of the god of Gold.
A plane — and in its wake another, and

WEIRD TALES

another — a score of whispering dots
against the tropic night.

Red Jim Donegan saw the monstrous,
faceless visage upturned to watch his com-
ing. He saw the white fires chill in its
moon-great eyes, saw vast arm-things form-
ing on its formless body, like swinging
ropes of crystal maces. He saw the sinews
of massive yellow gold that threaded its
bulk, tensing and twisting with life, and
the brain of knotted gold that lay in its
cupped skull like worms in a bowl of
gems. He saw that skull grow vaster as
his plane rushed on — ^mountain-vast, filling
the night — saw those star-backed eyes
blazing — saw the evil arms sweeping up-
ward — then was in empty air, sprav/led
over vacancy, his ship driving down into
that monstrous face, between the staring
sapphire eyes.

He sumng from a silk umbrella and saw
those kraken-arms paw at the crystal skull
where a flower of green flame blossomed —
saw the second plane diving with scream-
ing wings — a third beyond it — and a
fourth. The air was full of the white
bubbles of parachutes, sinking into the
edge of night. He saw the shadow of the
world’s edge creeping up over that giant
shape, standing spread-legged among the
barren hills, a green flame burning in its
golden brain, a flame eating quartz as a
spark eats tinder; a flame devouring gold,
sloughing away crystalline immensity in a
rain of burning tears, ever deeper, ever
faster, as plane after plane burst with its
deadly load against that crystal mass.

In blind, mad torture the god of Gold
strode over Oaxaca. Green fire fell from
it like blazing snow, pocking the naked
rock.. One dragging hoof furrowed the
rocky earth, uprooting trees, crags, houses,
crushing the man-made lure that had dared
it to destruction. Fragments of eaten arms
crashed like a meteor-fall and lay burning
in the night. A moment it towered, dying,
over ruined Oaxaca, where Nicholas Svadin

stood dwarfed among the shambles of
broken houses, the slight, stooped form of
Heinrich Sturm beside him. 'Then in the
sky that consuming flame blazed brighter
as some vital source was touched. A pillar
of licking light wiped out the stars. It
took one giant stride, another, and the
world shook with the fall of the living
mountain that crashed down out of the
burning night. Among the eastern hills
the fractured limbs of the colossus of the
South lay strewn like sown grain, and in
the rocky flank of San Felipe a pit of cold
green fire ate slowly toward the heart of
Earth.

One who had been a man turned away
from that holocaust and vanished in the
darkness; Nicholas Svadin, his dead flesh
clammy with dew, his gross bulk moving
with the stealthy silence of a cat, with
Heinrich Sturm trotting after him through
the night.

Svadin, who had met the challenge of a

god of Gold — and won!

« * • • «

A Thing of the Sea — a Thing of the
Earth — a Thing of Men!

Three things outrageous to Man’s
knowledge of himself and of his world,
improbable beyond calculation, impossible
if impossibility could exist. Three Things
raised from the dead, from the inanimate,
from the inanimable, to live, and feed, and
stalk the Earth among other things that
lived and ate and walked properly, prob-
ably, possibly. Three Things that sought
the sovereignty of Earth — a Thing of
ravening hunger, a Thing with a hate of
men, and a Thing that was god-hero of
all men.

One of the three lay destroyed beyond
Oaxaca, and the brown men who had done
its will were fugitives from vengeance. One
still basked and fed in the tropic sea. And
the third was Nicholas Svadin.

Rumors spread like ripples in a quiet
pool. Even a god grows old. Svadin

SPAWN

was a god whose word was law, whose
wisdom was more than human, whose
brain devised strange sciences, who
brought the world comfort and content-
ment greater than it had ever known. In
life he was a genius; dead, a martyr. He
rose from the dead, wearing the mark of
death, and men worshipped him as a god,
saw in him a god’s omnipotent wisdom.
He remade a world, and the world was
content. He slew the giant god of Gold
and men followed him like sheep. But
there were others who were not impressed
by gods, or men like gods, and there were
rumors, whisperings, wonderings.

It was my work to hear such rumors,
listen to whisperings, tell men the truth
about what they wondered.

Few men were close to Svadin, but of
those who were, one told strange stories.
A man who in other times had made his
living on the fruits of such stories, Svadin
— from whom the marks of death had
never vanished, though he had risen from
the dead — in whose forehead the puckered
mark of a bullet still showed, whose face
was white with the mortician’s wax, whose
lingers were puffed and blue, whose body
was a bloated sack, whose flesh reeked with
the fluids which preserve corpses; who fed
privately, on strange foods, quaffed liquids
which reeked as those fluids reeked; who
showed strange vacancies of memory, ab-
sences of knowledge about common
things, yet v/as a greater genius than in
life-before-death; whose only confidant
was the mad zoologist, Heinrich Wilhelm
Sturm.

I heard of the strange wicker and elastic
form which was made by a craftsman in
Vienna and worn under his heavy, padded
clothes. I heard of a woman of impressive
birth who offered herself as women have —
and of the dull, uncomprehending stare
which drove her shivering from his cham-
ber.

I heard of the rats that swarmed in

his apartments, where no cat would stay,
and of the curious devices he had erected
around his bed — of the day when a vulture
settled on his shoulder and others circled
overhead, craning their wattled necks.

I saw Nils Svedberg, attache of the
Anglo-Scandian legation in Berlin, when
he fired three Mauser bullets into the
flabby paunch of the master of the world —
saw too what the crowd discarded when its
fanatic vengeance was sated, and children
scampered home with bloody souvenirs of
what had been a man. I heard Svadin’s
thick voice as he thanked them.

Rumors — whisperings — questions with-
out an answer. Svadin — to some a god,
born into pseudo-human form, immortal
and omnipotent; to some a man, unclean,
with tlie awakening lusts and habits of a
man; to some a Thing brought out of Hell
to damn Mankind.

And a Thing of the Sea, feeding in the
Caribbean, in the turgid outpourings of
the Amazon, along the populous coasts of
Guiana and Brazil. Devil’s Island a grave-
yard. And at last — Rio!

« * # • •

A plane with a red-haired, large-nosed
American pilot cruised the coasts of South
America. A worn, grayed, spectacled old
man sat with him, peering down into the
shallow, shadowed waters for darker
shadows. They marked the slow progress
of Death along the tropic coasts, and in
Rio de Janeiro, Queen City of the South,
the mightiest engineering masterpiece of
Man was near completion.

Jim Donegan and Heinrich Sturm
watched and carried word of what they
saw, while Nicholas Svadin schemed arid
planned in Rio of the South.

R IO — rebuilt from the shell of Revolu-
tion. Rio fairer than ever, a white
jewel against the green breast of Brazil.
Rio with her mighty harbor strangely
empty, her horseshoe beaches deserted, and

WEIRD TALES

across the sucking mouth of the Atlantic
a wall, with one huge gateway.

Crowds on tire mountainsides, waiting.
Drugged carrion bobbing in the blue
waters of the harbor — slaughtered cattle
from the Argentine, from America, from
Australia — fish floating white-bellied in
the trough of the waves — dead dogs, dead
cats, dead horses — all the dead of Rio and
the South, larded with opiates, rocking in
the chopped blue waters of the harbor of
Rio de Janeiro. And at the gateway to
the sea a glistening greening of the waves
— a slick mound flowing landward be-
tween the guarding walls — a gray-green
horror scenting prey. A silver plane above
it in the sky. A small black dot on the
curved white beach.

Svadin — and the Thing of the Sea.

Food was offered, and it fed. It poured
sluggishly into the great land-locked har-
bor of Rio. It supped at the meager
morsels floating in the sea and flowed on
toward the deserted city and the undead
man who stood watching it. And as its
last glistening pseudopod oozed through
the man-made gates, a sigh went up from
the people on the mountainsides. Slowly
and ponderously the barrier gate slid shut
behind it, sealing the harbor from the sea.
Great pumps began to throb, and columns
of clear green brine of a river’s thickness
foamed into the unfillable Atlantic.

'The plane had landed on the beach and
Svadin climbed in. Now it was aloft,
circling over the city and the harbor. The
Thing was wary. It had learned, as all
preying things learn, that each tiny insect
has its sting. It sensed a subtle difference
in the tang of the brine in which it lay —
felt a motion of the water as Svadin’s
colossal pumps sucked at the harbor — de-
tected a tension in the air. Its eddying
lust for flesh quieted. It gathered itself to-
gether — ^swirled imeasily in the confines of
the walled harbor — lapped questioningly
against the rampart that barred it from the

Atlantic. Its glistening flanks heaved high
out of the blue waters. It gathered itself
into a great ball of cloudy jade that rose
and fell in the surge of the quiet sea. It
lay as a frightened beast lies — frozen — ^but
without fear, biding its time.

Day after day after day. Day after day
under the burning sun, while curious hu-
man mites dotted the Beira Mar, thronged
on the white moon-rind beaches — while
devout thousands crammed the Igreja de
Penha, spared by Revolution, knelt on its
winding stair, prayed and knelt in the many
Houses of God of Rio of the South — ^while
inch by inch and foot by foot the sparkling
waters of Rio’s mighty harbor sank and
the gray-black ooze of the sea floor steamed
and stank in the tropic sun, and the vast
green Thing from the sea lay drugged
amid the receding waters.

Atop hunched Corcovado the majestic
Christ of Rio stared down on Mankind and
the enemy of Manlcind. Atop sky-stabbing
Sugarloaf, poised between sea and land,
Nicholas Svadin stood and stared, and with
him Heinrich Sturm. Above the sinking
waters of the bay, great ships of the air
droned and circled, dropping the fine, in-
sidious chemical rain that drugged the
Thing with sleep. And in the jewel-city
below, Ramon ^nzales, human link be-
tween the Latin blood of old Europe and
new America, stood and stared with burn-
ing eyes. Leagues across the oily, sleeping
sea three other men stood or sat staring,
grim-eyed, into nothing. Moorehead the
American. Nasuki the Asiatic. Blond
Rasmussen of Anglo-Scandia.

Day after day after day, while the
miasmic stench of Rio’s draining harbor
rose over the white avenues of Rio de
Janeiro, while the darkening waters lapped
lower and ever lower on the glistening
jade-green mountains of jellied ooze that
lay cooking in the sun. Day after day after
day, while those who had crept back to
the Beira Mar, to rock-rimmed Nictheroy,

SPAWN

returned to the green, cool hills to watch
and wait. A handful of sullen men in the
Queen City of the South. Another handful
on the naked cap of Sugarloaf and at the
feet of the mighty Christ of Corcovado,
miraculously untouched by the ravening of
the god of Gold. And above it all the
whine and drone of the circling planes and
the far, dull mutter of the giant pumps.

Living things acquire a tolerance of
drugs, demand more and more and ever
more to sate their appetite. Drugged meat
had lulled the Thing, and the rain of
drugs from circling planes had kept it
torpid, soothed by the slow lap of brine
against its gelid flanks dreaming of future
feasts. Now as the waters sank and the
sun beat down on its naked bulk, the vast
Thing roused. Like a great green slug it
crept over the white thread of the Beira
Mar, into the city of jewels. Buildings
crumpled under its weight, walls were
burst by the pressure of its questing pseu-
dopods. Into the pockets of the hills
it crept, over the broken city, and be-
hind it on the summit of Sugarloaf
was frantic activity. Nicholas Svadin’s
puffed blue hand pointed, and where he
gestured a ring of fire slashed across Rio’s
far-reaching avenues, barring the exit to
the sea. Slowly the zone of flame crept
inward, toward the empty harbor, and be-
fore its fierce heat the Sea-Thing retreated,
grinding the city under its slimy mass.
Little by little it roused — its ponderous
motions became quicker, angrier. Little
by little fear woke in it, where fear had
never been-— fear of the little gabbling
human things that stung it with their puny
weapons. It lay like a glassy blanket over
the ruined streets of Rio — a knot of twist-
ing serpent-forms craving the cool wet
blackness of the deep sea. Before its
awakened fury the wall across Rio’s harbor
would be like a twig across the path of an
avalanche. Its fringe of lolloping tentacles
dabbled in the salt-encrusted pool that was

all the pumps had left of the Bay of Rio,
and in minutes the rippling mirror was
gone, sucked into the Sea-Thing’s avid
mass.

And then Svadin struck.

T STOOD with my camera beneath the
Christ of Corcovado. The sun was set-
ting, and as the shadow of the western
summits crept over the gutted Rio the
Sea-’Thing gathered itself for the assault
that would carry it over Sugarloaf, over the
wall that men had made, into the welcom-
ing Atlantic. 'Then in the north, where the
sun yet shone, came a flicker of metal gnats
against the cloudless sky, the burr of their
roaring engines speeding them through the
advancing twilight. From Sugarloaf a
single rocket rose and burst, a pale star
over the sea, showering spangled flame,
and the heavens were filled with the thun-
der of Man’s aerial hosts — bombers, trans-
ports, planes of all sizes and all nations
in a monster fleet whose shadow lay long
on the curling sea like a streamer of dark-
ness. Their first rank swung low over the
hollow harbor and out of them rained a
curtain of white missiles, minute against
the immensity of Rio’s circling hills. Like
hail they fell, and after them a second
shower, and a third as the fleet roared by
above. And then tlie first bombs hit!

A ribbon of fire burst against the twi-
light. Fountains of golden flame vomited
skyward, scores of feet over the naked
surface of the Thing. Hundreds — thou-
sands of bursting dots of fire, sweeping
swaths of fiery rain, cascades of consuming
flame — until the Sea-'Thing blazed with
one mighty skyward-reaching plume of
golden glory that licked at the darkening
heavens where the wings of Mankind’s
army of destruction still roared past, the
rain of death still fell like a white curtain,
painted by the leaping yellow flame of
burning sodium.

I saw it then as old Heinrich Sturm had

WEIRD TALES

seen it months and years before, as
Nicholas Svadin had seen it when he began
his colossal plan to bait the Thing into the
land-locked bay of Rio de Janiero. Flame,
killing and cleansing where no other
weapon of Man would serve; green flame
devouring the Earth-born god of Gold,
corroding its crystal thews and consuming
its golden brain; yellow flame feeding on
the sea-green pulp of the sea-born Thing
— changing the water that was its life into
the caustic venom that slew it. As that
colossal golden torch flared skyward over
broken Rio I saw the mountainous bulk of
the Sea-Thing shrivel and clot into a pulp
of milky curds, austed with burnt alkali.
Water oozed from it like whey from
pressed cheese, and tongues of the yellow
flame licked along it, drinking it up. The
black ooze of the harbor was drying and
cracking under the fierce heat. Palms that
still stood along the bare white beaches
were curling, crisping, bursting into splin-
ters of red flame, and even against the
rising breeze the steaming stench of cooked
flesh reeked in our nostrils.

The murmur of voices behind me stilled.
I turned. The crowd had given way be-
fore the little knot of men who were com-
ing toward me, driven from the crest of
Sugarloaf by the fierce heat of the burning
Thing. Flame-headed, red-nosed Donegan
pushing a way for those who followed him.
Gray-whiskered Heinrich Sturm pattering
after him. Behind them, surrounded by
men in braided uniforms, the fish-white,
corpse-flesh shape of Nicholas Svadin.

I gave no groimd to them. I stood at
the Christ’s feet and gave them stare for
stare. I stared at Red Jim Donegan, at
Zoologist Heinrich Sturm, and I stared at
the gross, misshapen thing that was master
of the world.

I had not seen him since that night in
Oaxaca, three years before. He had been
hideous then, but now the scent and shape
of Death were on him as they were on

Lazarus when he arose blank-eyed from the
grave. A gray cloak swirled from his
shoulders and fell billowing over a body
warped and bloated out of all human sem-
blance. Rolls of polished flesh sagged
from his face, his neck, his wrists. His
fingers were yellow wads of sickening fat,
stained with blue, and his feet were clump-
ing pillars. Out of that pallid face his two
bright eyes peered like raisins burnt glassy
and stuck in sour dough. The reek of
embalming fluids made the air nauseous
within rods of where he stood. Nicholas
Svadin! Living dead man — master of the
world!

I knew Donegan from Oaxaca. He told
me what I had guessed. Old Sturm’s re-
searches, made on bits of the jelly left by
the Thing, on fragments hewed from it
by volunteers, showed it to be built largely
of linked molecules of colloidal water.
Water-stuff of the sea — abound by the life-
force into a semblance of protoplasm — into
a camate pulp that fed on the sea and took
life from it even as it fed on living flesh
for the needful elements that the waters
could not give it. Living water— mountain-
huge — destroyed by decomposing forces
that no water could quench — by bombs of
metallic sodium, tearing apart the complex
colloidal structure of its aqueous flesh and
riving it into flames of burning hydrogen
and crusting, jelling alkali. Chemical fire,
withering as it burnt.

I knew, too, Ramon Gonzales. I had
seen him when he stood beside Svadin’s
bier in the sun of Budapest — ^when Svadin
gave him the united Latin states of two
continents to govern — when he stood
ankle-deep in the green slime that the Sea-
Thing had left coating the white walls of
gutted Rio. I saw him now, his dark face
ghastly in the yellow glare, screaming
accusations at the immobile, pasty face of
Nicholas Svadin. Those button eyes moved
flickering to observe him; the shapeless
bulk gathered its cloak closer about it and

SPAWN

swiveled to consider him. Higher and
higher Gonzales’ hysterical voice raged —
cursing Svadin for the doom he had
brought on Rio, cursing him for the thing
he had been as a man and for the thing
he was now. No sign of understanding
showed on that bloated face — no sign of
human feeling. I felt a tension in the
air, knew it was about to break. My camera
over Jim Donegan’s shoulder saw Ramon
Gonzales as his sword lashed out, cutting
through Svadin ’s upflung arm, biting deep
into his side, sinking hilt-deep in his flesh.
I saw its point standing out a foot behind
that shrouded back, and the flare of Jim
Donegan’s gun licked across my film as
he shot Gonzales down. I saw, too, the
thick, pale fluid dripping slowly from
the stump of Svadin’s severed arm, and the
puffed, five-fingered thing that twitched
and scrabbled on the gravel at his feet.

Above us, lit by the dying yellow flame,
the Christ of Corcovado looked down on
the man who had risen from the dead to
rule the world.

# # * * *

Four men were the world when Svadin
rose from the dead in Budapest. Nasuki,
Rasmussen, Gonzales, Moorehead, Gon-
zales was dead.

Two men had stood at Svadin’s side
when he slew the Thing of the Earth and
the gelid Thing of the Sea. Donegan,
Heinrich Sturm. Sturm alone remained.

SHOWED the pictures I had taken
on Corcovado to drawn-faced Richard
Moorehead in the White House at Wash-
ington. I showed them to Nasuki in Tokyo
and to Nils Rasmussen in London. I told
them other things that I had seen and
heard, and gave them names of men who
had talked and would talk again. I wore
a small gold badge under my lapel — a
badge in the shape of the crux ansata, the
looped Egyptian aoss of natural, holy Life.

I went to find Jim Donegan before it

should be too late. It was too late. Since
the morning of the day when Nicholas
Svadin’s silver plane slipped to the ground
at the airport" of Budapest, and Svadin’s
closed black limousine swallowed him and
Donegan and Heinrich Sturm, the tall,
red-haired American had not been seen.
Sturm was there, close to Svadin, with him
day and night, but no one could speak with
him. And gradually he too was seen less
and less as Svadin hid himself in curtained
rooms and sent his servants from the
palace, drew a wall of steel around him
through which only Zoologist Heinrich
Sturm might pass.

Something was brewing behind that iron
ring — something that had been boding
since long before Svadin stood in Oaxaca
and lured the god of Gold to its death —
since long before he was first approached
by the bearded, spectacled little German
scientist who was now the only man who
saw him or knew that he was alive. Yet
Svadin’s orders went out from the great,
empty palace in Budapest, and the world
grew sullen and afraid.

When he was newly risen from the bier,
Nicholas Svadin had in him the under-
standing of a leader of Mankind and the
genius of a god. Men took him for a
god and were not betrayed. He thought
with diamond clearness, saw diamond-
keenly the needs and weaknesses of men
and of men’s world. He made of the
world a place where men could live hap-
pily and securely, without want, without
discomfort — and live as men.

As the months went by Svadin had
changed. Elis genius grew keener, harder,
his thinking clearer. Scientist — economist
— dictator — he was all. The things he
ordained, and which men throughout the
world did at his command, were things
dictated by reason for the good of the
human race. But at the same time human-
ity had gone out of him.

Never, since that day when the heaped

WEIRD TALES

calks fell from his stifBy rising frame in
the sun of Budapest, had he spoken his
own name. He was Svadin, but Svadin
was not the same. He was no longer a
man. He was a machine.

Conceivably, a machine might weigh and
balance all the facts governing the progress
and condition of one man or of all human-
ity, and judge with absolute, mathematical
fairness what course each should take in
order that the welfare of all should be
preserved. If it meant death or torment
for one, was that the concern of the many?
If a city or a nation must be crushed, as
Rio had been crushed, to wipe out a mon-
strous Thing that was preying on Man-
kind, should not Rio rejoice at its chance
to be the benefactor of the race? No man
would say so. But Svadin was not a man.
What he was — what he had become — it
was the purpose of the League of the
Golden Cross to discover.

No movement is greater than its leaders.
Those who wore the looped cross of Life
were led by the three men to whom the
world looked, next to Svadin, for justice —
to whom they looked, in spite of Svadin,
for human justice. Before he rose from
his bier, they had ruled the world. It was
their intention to rule it again.

No lesser men could have planned as
they planned, without Svadin’s knowledge,
each last step of what must happen. That
things went otherwise was not their fault
— it was the fault of the knowledge that
they had, or their interpretation of that
knowledge. I had not yet found Jim
Donegan. I had not seen Heinrich Sturm.

Through all the world the seeds of re-
volt were spreading, deeper and farther
than they had spread among the little
brown-blooded men who were rallied by
fear of the god of Gold. But throughout
all the world those seeds fell on the fallow
soil of fear — fear of a man who had risen
from death — of a man who was himself a
god, with a god’s power and a god’s unsee-

ing eye, with a god’s revenge. Men — ^little
superstitious men in thousands and mil-
lions, feared Svadin more than they hated
him. At his word they would slay brothers
and cousins, fathers and lovers, friend and
foe alike. Reason and justice meant noth-
ing to them. There must be a greater
fear to drive them — and it was my job to
find that fear.

In every place where Svadin had his
palaces, his steel- jacketed guards, I peered
and pried, watching for the sight of a red
head, an improbably distorted nose. And
not for a, long, long time did I find it

Svadin’s grim castle loomed among
weedy gardens above Budapest. I found old
men who had planted those gardens, others
who had laid them out, who had built their
drains and sunk the foundations of the
palace in a day before Svadin was born.
Where only rats had gone for a generation,
I went. ’'fOTaere only rats’ claws had scrab-
bled, my fingers tapped, pressed, dug in
the fetid darkness. Ladders whose iron
rungs had rusted to powder bore my weight
on the crumbling stumps of those rungs.
Leaves that had drifted for years over nar-
row gratings were cleared away from be-
neath, and light let in. The little Egyptian
ankh became the symbol of a brotherhood
of moles, delving under the foundations
of Nicholas Svadin’s mighty mausoleum.
And one day my tapping fingers were an-
swered!

Tap, tap, tap through the thick stone —
listen and tap, tap and listen. More men
than Donegan had disappeared, and they
crouched in their lightless cells and listened
to our questions, answered when they
could, guided the slow gnawing of our
drills and shovels through the rock under
Budapest. Closer — closer — they had their
ways of speaking without words, but no
word came from the red-headed, big-nosed
American of whom their tapping tolcL
Something prevented — something they
could not explain. And stiU we dug, and

SPAWN

tapped, and listened, following their
meager clues.

There came a time when we lost touch
with the world outside. Three of us, in
a world of our own, forgot that there was
an outside, that there was anything but
the one great purpose that drove us on
through the dark and the damp. We had
no word of the world, nor the world of
us.

Nasuki grew impatient, and the man
who was in Gonzales’ place. The work of
the Golden Cross was progressing, its ring
of rebellion strengthening. To Rasmussen,
to Moorehead, they cried for action. The
brooding stillness that lay over Svadin’s
palace, the brutal coldness of the orders
that issued through Heinrich Sturm’s lips,
shaping the civilization of a world as a
sculptor would chisel granite, drove them
to the edge of madness. Revolution flamed
again — and this time brother was pitted
against brother all across the face of the
planet — fear against fury-^Svadin against
the Four.

I HAVE seen pictures of the Svadin
whom that flame of war drew to the
balcony of his palace, to shout his thun-
derous command of death above the kneel-
ing throng. The disease, if disease it was
that changed him, was progressing swiftly.
There was little resemblance to the man
who lay dead a handful of years before,
and on whom life fell out of an empty
sky. He was huge, misshapen, monstrous,
but so utter was their fear and awe that
those groveling thousands questioned no
word of his and cut down their kin as they
would reap corn. The looped cross was
an emblem of certain death. Men cast it
from them, forswore its pledge, betrayed
others who were faithful. At last one
desperate, embattled horde stormed tlie
grim castle above Budapest, while the
sullen ring of the faithful closed in around
them. Under their feet, ignorant of what

was happening above us, we three dug and
tapped, tapped and dug — and found!

I remember that moment when I knelt
in the stuffy darkness of the tunnel, dig-
ging my fingers into the cracks on either
side of that massive block. For hours, two
sleeping while one worked, we had chiseled
at it, widening the crevices, carving a grip,
loosening it from the bed in which it had
been set a lifetime before. My numbed
fingers seemed to become part of the cold
stone. Dunard was tugging at me, beg-
ging me to give him his chance. Then the
great block shifted in its bed, tilted and
slid crushingly against me. Barely in time
I slipped out from under it; then I was
leaning over its slimy mass, Smirnoff’s
torch in my hand, peering into the black
cavern beyond. The round beam of the
torch wavered across moldering straw —
across dripping, fungus-feathered walls. It
centered on a face, huge-nosed, topped
with matted red hair.

It was Donegan!

We fed him while Dunard hacked at
the gyves that held him spread-eagled
against the wall. As he grew stronger he
talked — answering my questions — telling
of things that grew too horribly clear in
the light of past happenings. At last we
parted, Dunard and Smirnoff to carry word
to the Brotherhood of the Cross — Donegan
and I into the dark dungeons of Nicholas
Svadin!

'The guard at the cell door died as other
guards have died before; we had no choice.
I remembered those voices which were only
fingers tap-tap-tapping through stone. I
knew what those buried men would do if
only they could — and gave them their
chance.

We were a little army in ourselves when
we charged up the great central staircase
of Svadin’s castle against the grim line of
faithful guards. At the landing they held
us — and outside, rattling in the gardens
beyond the great doors, we could hear the

WEIRD TALES

gunfire of that last stand of our Brother-
hood against ignorance and fear. We
thought then that Dunard and Smirnoff
had won through, had given their message
to those who could light the flame of
revolt. We did not know that they were
cut down before they could reach, our
forces. But armed with what we could
find or wrest from the men who opposed
us, we charged up that broad staircase into
the face of their fire, burst over them and
beat them down as a peasant flails wheat,
turned their machine-gun on their fleeing
backs and mowed them down in a long,
heaped windrow strewn down the length
of the corridor to Svadin’s door.

We stood there at the head of the
stairs, behind the gun, staring at that
door — half naked, filthy, caked with blood.
There was a great, breathless silence broken
only by the patter of gimfire in the court-
yard outside, muffled by the walls. Then
Donegan picked up the gun and stepped
over the crumpled body of a guard. His
bare feet slapped on the cold stone of the
hall and behind him our footsteps echoed,
in perfect time, drumming the death-roll
of Nicholas Svadin. We came to the door
— and it opened!

Heinrich Sturm stood there. Sturm- —
grown bent and little. Sturm with horror
in his eyes, with horror twisting his face
and blood streaming down his chest from
a ripped-out throat. Sturm — babbling
blood-choked German words, tottering,
crumpling at our feet, who stood staring
over him into the great, dark room beyond,
at Svadin, red-mouthed, standing beside
the great canopied bed, at the ten foul
things that stood behind him!

Donegan’s machine-gun sprayed death
over the bleeding body of Zoologist Hein-
rich Wilhelm Sturm. Soft slugs plowed
into the soft body of Nicholas Svadin, into
the bodies of the ten things at his feet. He
shook at their impact, and the pallid flesh
ripped visibly where they hit, but he only

stood and laughed — laughed as the god
of Gold had laughed, in a voice that meant
death and doom to the human race —
laughed and came striding at us across the
room with his hell-pack trotting at his
heels.

There are fears that can surpass all cour-
age. That fear drenched us then. We
ran — Donegan with his gun like a child
in his arms, I with old Heinrich Sturm
dragging like a wet sack behind me, the
others like ragged, screaming ghosts. We
stumbled over the windrows of dead in
the corridor, down those sweeping stairs
into the lower hall, through the open doors
into the courtyard. We stood, trapped be-
tween death and death.

A hundred men remained of the
Brotherhood of the Cross. They were
huddled in a knot in the center of the
court, surrounded by the host who were
faithful to fear, and to Svadin. As we
burst through the great doors of the castle,
led by the naked, haggard, flaming-haired
figure of Jim Donegan, every eye turned
to us — every hand fell momentarily from
its work of killing. Then miraculously old
Heinrich Sturm was struggling up in my
arms, was shouting in German, in his bub-
bling, Wood-choked voice, and in the
throng other voices in other languages were
taking up his cry, translating it — sending
it winging on;

“He is no god! He is from Hell — a
fiend from Hell! Vampire — eater of men!
He — and his cursed spawn!”

They knew him, every one. They knew
him for Svadin’s intimate — the man who
spoke with Svadin’s voice and gave his
orders to the world. They heard what he
said — and in the doorway they saw Svadin
himself.

He was naked, as he had stood when
that door swung open and Sturm came
stumbling through. He was corpse-white,
blotched with the purple-yellow of decay,
bloated with the gasses of death. Svadin—

SPAWN

undead — unhuman — and around his feet
ten gibbering simulacra of himself — ten
pulpy, fish-white monsters of his flesh.

He stood there, spread-legged, above the
crowd. His glassy eyes stared down on the
bloody, upturned faces, and the stump of
his hacked arm pounded on his hairless
breast where the line of bullet-marks
showed like a purple ribbon. His vast
voice thundered down at them, and it was
like the bellowing of a lusty bull:

"1 am Nicholas Svadin!”

And in hideous, mocking echo the ten
dwarfed horrors piped after him:

"I am Nicholas Svadin!”

In my arms old Heinrich Sturm lay star-
ing at the Thing whose slave he had
been, and his old lips whispered five
words before his head sagged down in
death. Red Jim Donegan heard them
and shouted them for the world to
hear.

Svadin heard, and if that dead-man’s
face could show expression, fear sloughed
over it, and his thick red lips parted in a
grin of terror over yellow fangs.

"Burn him! Fire is clean!”

T CAUGHT up the body of Heinrich
-5- Sturm and ran with it, out of the path
of the mob that surged up the castle steps,
Jim Donegan at their head. Svadin’s
splayed feet pounded across the floor of
the great hall, his hell-brood pattering
after him.

Then the crowd caught them and I
heard the spat of clubbed fists on soft
flesh, and a great roaring scream of fury
w'ent up over the yammer of the mob.

They tore the little fiends to shreds and
still they lived. They bound the Thing
that had been Svadin and carried him,
battered and twisting, into the courtyard.
They built a pyre in the streets of Buda-
pest, and when the flarnes licked high they
cast him in, his hell-spawn with him, and
watched with avid eyes as he writhed and

crisped. The beast is in every man when
hate and fear are roused. Fat into the
night, when Svadin and his brood were
ashes underfoot, the mad crowd surged
and fought through the streets, looting,
burning, ravening.

When Svadin died, four men had ruled
the world. Today four men rule a world
that is better because Svadin rose from the
dead that day in Budapest, that is free
because of his unhuman tyranny. Moore-
head, Nasuki, Rasmussen, Corregio. Red
Jim Donegan is a hero, and I, and a hun-
dred other living men, but none pays
homage to dead old Heinrich Wilhelm
Sturm. He was too long identified with
Nicholas Svadin for men to love him now.

What we know of Svadin, and of other
things, Sturm had learned, little by little,
through the years. He told certain things
to Donegan, before Svadin grew suspicious
and ordered the American’s death. It was
Heinrich Sturm’s mercy that won Donegan
a cell instead of a bullet or the knife, or
even worse. For somewhere during his
association with the decadent dregs of
Europe’s royal courts the reborn Svadin
had acquired, among other things, a taste
for blood.

"All I know is what Sturm told me,”
Donegan says. "The old man was pretty
shrewd, and what he didn’t know he
guessed — and I reckon he guessed close.
It was curiosity made him stay on with
Svadin — first off, anyway. Afterward he
knew too much to get away.

"There must have been spores of life,
so Sturm said. There was a Sw'cde by the
name of Arrhenius — back years ago — who
thought that life might travel from planet
to planet in spores so small that light could
push them through space. He said that
spore-dust from ferns and moss and
fungus, and tilings like bacteria that were
very small, could pass from world to world
that way. And he figured there might be
spores of pure life drifting around out

WEIRD TALES

there in space between the stars, and that
whenever they fell on a planet, life would
start there.

"That’s what happened to us, according
to the old man. There were three spores
that fell here, all within a short time of
each other. One fell in the sea, and it
brought the Sea-Thing to life, made mostly
of complex molecules of colloidal water
and salts out of the sea-ooze where the
spore fell. It could grow by sucking up
water, but it needed those salts from de-
composed, organic things too. That’s why
it attacked cities, where there was plenty of
food for it.

"The second spore fell on quartz — ^may-
be in some kind of colloidal jelly such as
they find sometimes in tlie hard stuff.
There was gold there, and the Thing that
came alive was what I saw, and what the
Indians thought was one of their old gods
come to life again — the god of gold and
crystal. Svadin killed it with some radium
compound that he invented.

"The third seed fell on Svadin and
brought him to life. He w’asn’t a man,
really, but he had all the semblance
of a man. He had the same memories
in his brain, and the same traits of char-
acter, until other things rooted them out.
He came to life — but to stay alive he
had to be different from other men. He
had embalming-fluid instead of blood, and
wax in his skin, and tilings like that, and
he had to replace them the way we eat food
to replace our tissues. When he changed,
it was in ways a dead man would change,
except that he used his brain better and
more logically than any live man ever did.
He had to learn how a man would act, and
he had some willing enough teachers to
show him the rotten along with tlie good.

"Those other things grew as they fed,
and so did Svadin, but he was more com-
plex than they were — ^more nearly like
men. Where they grew, he reproduced,
like the simplest kinds of living things, by

budding off duplicates of himself, out of
his own flesh. It was like a hydra — ^like a
vegetable — like anything but a man. May-
be you noticed, too — a couple of those
things, that grew after he lost his arm in
Rio, had only one arm too. They wei'e
Svadin, in a way. They called his name
when he did, there at the last. . .

The sweat is standing out on his
weather-beaten forehead as he remembers
it. I see the vision that he does — those
ten miniature Svadins growing, budding in
their turn, peopling the Earth anew with
a race of horrors made in mockery of man.
He reaches for the bottle at his elbow:

"We’ve seen Nature — the Universe —
spawning,’’ he says. "Maybe it’s hap-
pened on Earth before; maybe it’ll happen
again. Probably we and all the other
living things on Earth got started that way,
millions of years ago. For a while, maybe,
there were all kinds of abortive monsters
roaming around the world, killing each
other off the way Svadin killed the Sea-
Thing and the god of Gold. They were
new and simple — ^they reproduced by di-
viding, or budding, or crystallizing, and
it was hard to kill them except with some-
thing like fire that would destroy the life-
germs in them. After a while, when the
seed of life in them would be pretty well
diluted, it would be easier. Anyway,
that’s how I figure it.

"Svadin looked human, at first, but he
wasn’t — ever. What he was, no one
knows, not even old Sturm. It’s pretty
hard to imagine what kind of thoughts
and feelings a living dead man would
have. He had some hang-over memories
from the time he was really Svadin; so he
started in to fix over the world. Maybe
he thought men were his own kind, at
first — ^at least, they looked like him. He
fixed it, all right — only, after a while there
wasn’t anything human left in him, and he
began to plan things the way a machine
would, to fit him and the race he was

SPAWN

spawning. It’s no more than we’ve done
since Time began — skilling animals and
each other to get what we want, eating
away the Earth to get at her metals, and
oil, and so on. The god of Gold was
kin to the Earth, in a way, and I guess he
resented seeing her cut up by a lot of
flesh-and-blood animals like us.

'T said he learned some of man’s worst
vices. Once someone had taught him a
thing like that, and he liked it, it became
part of the heritage that he passed down
to future generations. Somehow he got
the taste for flesh — raw flesh — and hu-
mans were just like any other animal to
him. After Sturm stopped being useful
to him, he attacked the old man too.

"You see, he had a human brain, and
he could think like a man, and scheme and
sense danger to his plans. Only — he
didn’t ever really understand human psy-
chology. He was like an ameba, or a
polyp, and I don’t guess they have emo-
tions. He didn’t understand religion, and
the feeling people had that he was a kind
of god. He used it — but when awe turned
into hate, and people thought of him as
a devil instead of a god, they treated him
like one. They burned him the way their
ancestors burned witches!’’

He tosses down a shot of rye and wipes
his lips. "Next time it happens,’’ he says,
"I’m going to be drunk. And this time
I’ll stay drunk!’’

l^ice

in a Veteran’s Ear

By CANS T. FIELD

I am the man you killed. Had I been able,

I would have killed you first, that day we met
Between the shell-torn sty and ruined stable.

Rain in our eyes, shin-deep in mud and wet.

My broken trigger failed beneath my finger.

You smiled — and scowled, and raised your gun to me, . . .
Yet, after twenty years, I mow and linger
Where youf hot eyes, and yours alone, may see.

Lo, here I crouch, here in this shadowed corner;

I creep before you on this moonless way;

I mutter in this bysh; your breath is stilled.

You, from my murderer, have turned my mourner —
But, though you weep and name the saints and pray,

I shall remain. 1 am the man you killed.,

y^ttle Man

By CI..TT-TOT?n BALI

An odd and curious story about three strange murders, and
a mild little man who was the author of them

1. The First Impression

OOD evening, officer,” said
fi the little man, touching the
representative of the law
timidly on his elbow to attract attention.
"A pleasant evening, isn’t it?”

Patrolman James O’Hara started. He
had been intently interested in the lights
of an apartment across the street. A blonde
lived there and she apparently had never
learned the use of a window shade. O’Hara
had been delighted before the touch on his
arm brought him so swiftly back to mun-
dane soil. Once glance at the little man
and his apprehensions vanished.

"Very, sir,” he agreed.

He had in that brief look classified the
man, deciding he was an example of the
type who so often felt the vague thrill
unimportant people experience conversing
with a man in uniform. O’Hara rocked
gently back and forth on the curb,
his hands clasped behind him, as he ap-
peared to be surveying the starlit heavens,
but was actually cocking an eye for another
intimate glimpse at the blonde.

Officer O’Hara waited for the next ques-
tion, the inevitable inquiry, concealing his
annoyance as best as he could manage.
Now, he reasoned, the old fellow would
ask: "Everything quiet tonight?” And he
would reply that it was and consequently
could be expected to be treated at length
with theories about the habitual traits of
criminals which his interviewer had gath-
ered mentally during insomnia-ridden

hours. But when the little man spoke he
did not adhere to the routine patter Officer
O’Hara had anticipated.

"I should hate to spoil your pleasant
evening. Officer,” he said, "but are you
accustomed to the shock of discovering a
corpse?”

"Ha!” retorted O’Hara, controlling his
sense of humor. "Every hour or so! ”

"I wouldn’t have thought so after con-
sidering the type of residents in this sec-
tion of the city,” declared the little man
without a smile. “But then I suppose these
things happen in unexpected places. You
wouldn’t mind reporting the one upstairs?
Someone else might discover it and be
badly frightened, you know.”

It was fully thirty seconds before the re-
mark registered on O’Hara’s mind, so
deeply had he been immersed in anatomical
studies.

“Look here!” he snapped, his eyes drawn
back to the shabby little man. "You say a
corpse? What corpse? Have you spotted
a stiff around here?”

"I just left one,” said , the little man
without emotion.

"Don’t kid me!” threatened O’Hara.
"A fellow discovering a dead one don’t take
it as easy as that! I ought to know — I
pounded Tenth Avenue pavements once.
Now what’s the gag?”

“If my relaxation had not run to detec-
tive novels your language might be con-
fusing,”' reprimanded the little man.
"But I now have reason to be thankful for
what I once considered a guilty pastime.”

WEIRD TALES

O ’HARA sighed. This was evidently a
psychopathic case for Bellevue. The
man’s clothing, although neatly pressed,
was obviously too worn to belong to an
aphasia-stricken millionaire even if the
fellow was wandering in this section of the
city. O’Hara decided to ignore the corpse
entirely, extract what information he coidd,
and call the station for transportation.
*'What’s your name. Mister?”

The little man sighed apologetically.
"That will come later,” he said. His voice
remained mild, but the reply held a note of
finality.

The unknown’s threadbare topcoat had
been turned up to cover his skinny throat
over a neck not more than five feet above
street level. The coat hung wide, expos-
ing shiny serge and a thin string which
once might have been a first-class necktie
but now resembled a twisted rag. His feet
were encased in a pair of scufl?ed tan shoes
and his head bore a derby a size and a half
too large. He kept his hands concealed in
the side pockets of the shabby coat, and
O’Hara, taking a second look at the mild
features beneath the derby, decided the un-
seen fingers were not clutdiing a deadly
weapon. Such a chap could hardly be dan-
gerous. There was nothing extraordinary
about his features. The little man’s face
was quite plain; the kind of a face that
drifts by you unnoticed and slides from
memory like the outlines of a passing
stranger in a heavy fog. His profile was
that of a thirty-a-week clerk who had been
bending over pages of figures for some
forty or fifty years; pale, colorless and
undistinguished. The horn-rimmed glasses
before his light blue eyes emphasized the
meekness of his stooped carriage.

Officer O’Hara remembered the sincerity
with which disarranged minds could con-
ceive and describe lurid situations and he
now definitely filed his estimate of the man
in his mind. Smiling tolerantly, he sur-
veyed the empty street. He was pleased

that no pedestrians were within view, for
sometimes these quiet fellows screamed
tlaeir heads ofii when one requested their
company in a firm manner.

“Don’t drink, do you?” he inquired
affably.

"Why — I like a little bock in the spring.
Officer. Just a glass or two to remind me
of my student days in Vienna. But if I
may ask, just what has that to do with my
corpse?”

O’Hara perceived suavity would not
erase the memories of whatever hallucina-
tions the man was afflicted with and accord-
ingly grew terse.

“Your corpse, pop? So it’s yours now!”

“I suppose you could call it that, Offlcer.
But I really don’t know just how to dis-
pose of it, you see; so I’m calling your at-
tention to it. You will find it on a bed
in Apartment 3C of the Beekford Arms.
Across the street; number 1215. The door
is unlocked; you needn’t break it down.”

“Now look here!” Officer O’Hara could
hardly be blamed because his voice rose
above normal pitch. "You’re donating me
a corpse, huh? All laid out on a bed and —
and everything! May I ask,” he inquired
sarcastically, attempting unsuccessfully to
imitate the little man’s voice, "if you shot,
stabbed or simply poisoned this stifil you
'don’t know just how to dispose of’?”

"I hate weapons of any kind,” declared
the shabby one. "Poison is particularly dis-
tasteful to me. When I decided to kill him
I simply broke his neck with my hands.”

"Let’s walk down to the corner box,”
laughed O’Hara, relieved. He was unable
to imagine his puny charge breaking even
mere jackstraws with those frail hands.
“On our way you show me those powerful
hands, will you?”

rpHE little man thrust his wrists deeper
into the sagging pockets of his worn
coat and squinted up at O’Hara’s bulk in a
wistful fashion that reminded him of a

THE LITTLE MAN

famous cartoonist’s drawings depicting the
Seven Dwarfs.

"You can hardly believe me, I suppose,
Officer. Not that I hold your skepticism
to fault — he was astonished, too, I think.
And I admit I was quite amazed myself
when I discovered the full possibilities of
what yesterday was only a series of logical
deductions. But I had to be right; it
was ’’

"All right, you were right! Cmon, pop.”

"But, my dear sir, I can’t accompany
you. I’ve another appointment.”

O’Hara was grinning, thinking of the
story he could tell the boys at the station
house. "Now you’re not on your way to
be breaking more necks, are you?”

"I haven’t planned very far in advance —
not yet. If I decide — ^no, don’t attempt
to manhandle me! Please, Officer, I’m
sorry!”

The patrolman placed a weighty and
commanding arm on the stooped shoul-
ders. Th; little man twisted slightly, with-
drew his hands from his pockets with their
palms open and shoved at his opponent’s
herculean chest. Officer O’Hara’s breath
left his lungs with an unexpected wheeze
as his full two hundred and twenty poimds
rose into the air and fell back to the side-
walk five feet from their former position.
He shook his head to clear away mingled
shock and bewilderment, clawing for his
gun, only to see a diminutive figure pass-
ing around a block corner before he could
level the weapon.

Three minutes later a desk sergeant was
announcing to his captain: "Sor, it’s sorry
I am to say it, but Jimmy O’Hara’s as
drunk as an owl! He’s callin’ from a box,
and sez will ye send out a call for a little
mutt with a darby and horn rims on his
specs, weighin’ about ninety or a hundred.
The shrimp threw him — him, mind ye, the
hunk of bones and beef he is! — up in the
air and cracked his pate on the cobbles!
And while ye’re doin’ this he suggests ye

drap into the Beekford Arms and look
about fer a corpse! 'Whose corpse?’ I
asks, and he sez 'Any corpse.’ He don’t
know whose, sez he, but he’s double-
blasted sure there’s wan there!”

The little man had made his first im-
pression.

2. The Second Impression

I T WAS another twenty minutes before
a ring of grim-faced policemen stood
in Apartment 3C of the Beekford Arms
and looked at the thing on the bed that had
been Herman Wexel. The well-known,
independently wealthy dean of Botham
College had curiously died of a broken
neck while reading in bed, the vertebras of
his neck had been snapped as the result of
a terrific pressure applied at tire nape; or
so asserted the medical examiner, tracing
with an indifferent forefinger the great
livid welt that encircled the corpse’s fleshy
throat. A dim reading-lamp, suspended by
a clamp to the head of the dean’s bed, cast
a sickly glow over the dead man’s slender
fingers where they rested on the scientific
volume he had been perusing before he
had acquired that horrified, empty stare
with which he now contemplated infinity.

Standing well back in the shadows,
silenced by the stern presence of his superi-
ors, Officer O’Hara fumbled at the collar
of his uniform and swallowed as he
thought of bony fingers hidden in the
pockets of a shabby topcoat.

Some time later, as the remains of Her-
man Wexel were departing the portals of
the Beekford Arms in the customary wicker
basket through air foggy with impreca-
tions from the fingerprint staff because
those diligent worthies had discovered a
total absence of clues on doors and win-
dows, another development occurred. A
reporter sprinted into the foyer and fran-
tically signaled to his "pic” man, who was
engaged at the moment in recording for

WEIRD TALES

posterity the gruesome parade within his
unemotional lens. Immediately kindred
hawks of the fourth estate swooped upon
the scent of their fortunate brother.

"All right! All right!” surrendered the
newspaperman. "Your desks will be call-
ing you in a minute, anyway. Come on. . . .
Hazlitt, the scion of the Daily, has been
found dead just outside the door of his
girl friend’s apartment. You know Rosy
Acre, the Girl Without a Fan! She found
him. Says he was visiting her when some
queer little duck rang her bell and asked
to see the boy-friend. She left them talk-
ing in the hallway; later she hears a groan
and a thump and goes to investigate. Haz-
litt’s there still, but the little guy’s gone.
And Hazlitt, who was once a champion
wrestler, is flat with a broken neck! How
d’ye like it?”

“Like the scent of my aunt’s deceased
cat!” swore Captain Travers. "Another!”

"Front page, if it’s true,” agreed another
reporter without much faith.

rpHE late Harry Hershfield Hazlitt,
born plain Louis Rodetsky, sprawled in
the awkward posture commonly assumed in
violent or sudden deaths beneath a bed-
sheet in a police-guarded hallway. The
columnist’s neck had been neatly snapped,
leaving the pugilistic chin which had
graced miles of his syndicated headlines
sagging in a fashion that would have been
totally unfamiliar to a host of avid readers.
Hazlitt wore no coat, but neither shirt-
sleeves nor vest had been disarranged by
violence, and the perfect folds of his neck-
tie remained anchored behind the buttons
of the vest as firmly as an undertaker’s as-
sistant could have placed them. From the
bulge at the left armpit one of the exami-
ners produced a form-fitting holster con-
taining a fully loaded automatic. Either the
victim had had no time to draw his weapon
or he had not thought it necessary to resort
to a lethal instrument for defense.

Inside the gaudy three-room apartment,
Rosalie Acre, born Leah Rosenbloom, the
"Girl of Ten Thousand Motions’’ and fea-
tured star at Rocci’s Midnight Garden,
sobbed hysterically.

"I wouldn’t have known her,” whis-
pered one irrepressible scribbler, sotto
voce. "I never guessed she actually wore
clothes!”

“Shudup!” commanded a detective,
shifting his gun. .

"Of course I’ve told you everything,”
wept Miss Acre through a spasm of sobs.
"I answered the door and the guy asked
for Harry. 'Could I see Mr. Hazlitt?’ he
asked.

"I came back in and told Flarry, and he
said maybe it was something hot for the
column because it would have to be to
make anybody follow him here. He looked
through the eyehole in the door before he
went out, because there’s crooks and other
people, too, you know, who claim he has
printed things about them he shouldn’t.”

“Not only crooks is right, baby,” mut-
tered one detective reminiscently.

"And he said,” continued the dancer,
'Rosy, this guy’s got a brand new joke for
me, I betcha. The last one was such a hit
I played it up for weeks from all angles
and he got a little sore because he takes
himself serious. But he’s ' money in the
ole pocket! The more I kid him the fun-
nier he gets. He even makes me laugh;
he’s what you’d call a flooey case.’ 'Those
were Harry’s exact words and I could tell
them on the stand,” declared Miss Acre
hopefully.

“Then Mr. Hazlitt went outside?”
prompted her questioner. “Did he shut
the door behind him?”

"He closed it but left it ajar because of
the spring lock. His — my keys were in-
side. I heard them talking very low before
I turned on the radio; then I couldn’t hear
them at all except once when Harry
laughed. Oh-h, he laughed!"

THE LITTLE MAN

"And what did they say?” Her inquisitor
patiently awaited the passing of the par-
oxysm. He was merely checking through
a ritual which preceded the more lengthy
questioning conducted at Headquarters,
during which a confused witness frequently
prevaricated replies.

"I — don’t know. I heard Harry laugh
and then there was something like a groan,
and afterward a bump on the floor. I got
curious and went to the door and — and I

"Yes, yes. Take it easy now. The lit-
tle fellow wasn’t there?”

"No! I was frightened — terribly! Harry
was lying on the floor. I leaned over him
and saw how pale his face was. I looked
up and down the hall, but there was no
one there. I believe I screamed, because
the next thing I can remember is a crowd
of people asking me what happened and
why — of all the crazy things! — ^why I’d
shot him!”

"Well, Miss Acre, you’re not accused
or even suspected of shooting him. And
even if your — ^um — professional muscles
are strong I’d not be in a hurry to report
that you broke his neck. But if you will
be so kind I’d like you to come down to the
station and tell us a little more, because
there may be something we’ve missed.”

"There will be those awful photogra-
phers!” exclaimed Miss Acre, glowing with
pleasure.

"Excuse me, Al,” interrupted Captain
Travers, "but I got here too late to hear
the description. Just what did this caller
look like?”

"Just a shrimp, she says. Skinny little
fellow in cheap clothes and a derby hat,
wearing cheaters. Acted bashful, like he
wasn’t used to talking with women. He
must have used the stairs, I think, because
the elevator operator can’t remember bring-
ing him up. Think you can place him?”

"No, but I’d like to, Al. Unless coin-
cidence has gone entirely haywire tonight

he’s the same guy who murdered Herman
Wexel only a half-hour or so ago!”

3. The Third Impression

T he abrupt demise of two such promi-
nent characters as Wexel and Hazlitt,
however widely separated they may have
been in their individual pursuits of hap-
piness, was nevertheles sufflcient cause for
disturbing the nocturnal slumbers of the
City Commissioner. Incidentally the events
closely preceded the eve of election, and on
such dates headlines determine salaries.
Murder! While newsboys saeamed the
titles that never fail to thrill the staid,
home-loving citizen, the head of the city
police force hastened toward a conference
with his chiefs of staff, also routed from
their respective beds. They converged in
a private sanctuary even the most daring re-
porter hesitated to assault.

"Let us forget our natural curiosity, gen-
tlemen, in penetrating the mysterious
methods with which these twin murders
were performed,” requested the Commis-
sioner of Police. "Obviously we must seek
for a dual motive. It must be the easy
way, or so I believe, in locating our little
man; that is, if this man really exists.”

"Two persons saw him,” interjected the
chief of detectives.

“Ah, yes! Two! But Miss Aae is in a
semi-hysterical state, refuses even to look
through the criminal photographs; and
Officer — ah ”

"O’Hara, sir!” interposed Captain
Travers, who was secretly delighted with
the opportunity of mingling with the cream
of officialdom and meant to make his pres-
ence realized by all.

“Thank you. Captain. Officer O’Hara
tells a rather bewildering story about this
unknown suspect hurling him into the air

with the strength of — ah ”

“Tarzan,” supplied Travers, innocently
modernizing the Commissioner’s metaphor

WEIRD TALES

which had been meant to include Hercules.
"But I know O’Hara as a sober, reliable
man, sir — as are all the men of my pre-
cinct.”

The Commissioner smiled. "You are
to be congratulated, Captain. I respect the
trustworthy members of your force, includ-
ing yoiorself, but — ah — ^wouldn’t you, now,
in my place ”

"If Officer O’Hara says a pint-sized
midget bounced him on the sidewalk, then
it happened, sir!” The captain’s face was
white, but the thrust of his jaw was not
weakened.

The Commissioner’s face grew pink and
his attendant staff shifted their weights un-
easily. The muffled peal of a telephone
intervened.

"Speaking,” said the head of police.
"Yes, that’s all right. I left instructions
that I should be called regarding any
identification . . . what? . . . blue? . . . very
well. Sergeant . . . yes, call me if there is
any more.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to
the hushed circle. "The woman Rosalie
Acre was evidently frightened into a pro-
nounced mental state,” he announced.
"That was one of the men from her bed-
side in the hospital ward, saying she is
talking wildly about the man who rang her
doorbell and asked for Hazlitt having a
blue face. Blue skin, she repeats. Prob-
ably a reflection of dim hall lights. Did
O’Hara mention any discoloration. Cap-
tain?”

“Only that the man appeared to be very
pale.”

"Well then, to return to the motive.
What could Herman Wexel, a college dean
of imdisputed refinement, have in common
with suA a filth-scavenger as Hazlitt to
antagonize anybody? Perhaps the two
murders were not related at all.”

"I’ve been thinking, sir,” announced a
a detective unexpectedly.

"Why, thanks.” The Commissioner’s

tones were humorous, sarcastic. "I was
about to ask some of you to do so.”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I’d
gotten it all together,” said the perspiring
officer, conscious of the eyes upon him. "It
was the third man, you see. I couldn’t
think of his name, at first. He’s — maybe
— ^the next to go!”

"The next!”

Nerves were almost audibly strained
throughout the narrow confines of the
room.

<^'\7'ES, sir. Two months ago this Pro-
fessor Wexd loudly condemned the
researches of another college, and you
know how the Sunday sheets love to get
hold of those scientific controversies when
things are dull. I’ve been thinking, and
I remember now how Hazlitt jumped into
the argument and built up jokes about it
in his column for a week or more before
the subject naturally wore itself out.
There might be some connection.”

"Jokes!” exclaimed Captain Travers.
"Rosy Acre said Hazlitt referred to a
joke!”

“But it was nothing in my line,” con-
tinued the man. "No threats or so forth.
But I read in the Daily how this chap with
the ideas got pretty sore at Wexel for lam-
basting his pet theories. Later he busted
out at Hazlitt for ridiculing him, threat-
ened to sue in fact; claimed the columnist
had ruined his chances with the publishers.
One publisher, Philip Amherst, refused to
print a book written by this professor ex-
plaining the principles of the theory, on
the grounds that something so freely given
to the public and so easily ridiculed by the
newspapers must not be worth the paper
a printer would use to reproduce it. Am-
herst had considered printing it; it was at
the last minute that he turned it down. So
the professor blew up again.”

"What was the name of this pseudo-
scientist?”

THE LITTLE MAN

"I forget, sir. You see the whole thing
dried up and blew away weeks ago. I’d
never even have read about it if my kids
hadn’t torn up the funnies one Sunday, and
I wouldn’t have remembered it again if
these murders hadn’t happened.”

"Do you recall just what this scientist
was attempting to explain or what un-
known and fantastic solution he had ar-
rived at?”

"No, sir, except it was something about
concentrating power into molecules or
compressing atoms. He claimed an ant
should be able to place enough power into
its jaws to crush an elephant if it could
only open its mouth far enough. The Sun-
day supplements ran wild. Crackpots
thrived on it. This guy claimed he could
startle the world, and when Amherst de-
clared he was not impressed the professor
got indignant and swore he would impress
him if it was the last thing he ever did.”

"Give me the home address of Philip
Amherst of Amherst and Dion, publish-
ers!” the Commissioner was ordering In-
formation. “Quickly!”

He held the receiver to his ear and
nodded toward Captain Travers.

"Strange, isn’t it?” he inquired, and the
officer knew he was not expected to frame
an answer. "Men lack faith in a thing
simply because they are not able to under-
stand it. Still you will swear an under-
sized man was able to beat up one of your
largest members of the force on that mem-
ber’s word, although trained minds such as
Wexel’s disregarded the possibility —
Hello! Hello! I wish to speak to Mr.
Philip Amherst. Immediately. Police
Commissioner calling . . . ah . . . speak-
ing? Yes, Mr. Amherst. Sorry to disturb
you at this unearthly hour.”

T hose dose to the desk, holding even
the sound of expelled breath, could
hear the vibrations of the answer. Captain
Travers leaned forward to eavesdrop.

"But what efficiency, my dear Commis-
sioner!” grated the voice at the other end
of the wire. "Here I am about to call for
the aid of your superlative minions and out
of nowhere comes to you the knowledge
that I am in need of a uniformed protector!
It’s marvelous! Uncanny!”

"Mr. Amherst!” The Commissioner’s
tones reminded some of those present of
orders given once upon a time when
French soil ran red. "Do you — are you
alone?”

"Not exactly. But practically. There
is a little fellow who has just dropped in
with the information that he is about to
kill me. Hence I was just dialing the near-
est station when you rang. Pray do not be
alarmed. I am phoning from one side of
my studio desk and he is seated on the
other; between us I am holding a very re-
liable and fully loaded thirty-eight. Not
that I really need it. I’ve seen his kind
before and I always have been able to
point out to them that I am not the man for
cranks to arouse foolishly during such early
hours to listen to brainless schemes, re-
gardless of how clever these prodigies are
in eluding the barriers of burglar alamis
and servants I have installed. He appar-
ently realizes it now, because he’s sitting
here with the most idiotic grin on his Puck-
ish face. He seems to be enjoying my de-
scription of him!”

"Mr. Amherst! Who ts the man on the
other side of your desk?"

"You sound excited. Commissioner. I
meant to ask why you called; hope I haven’t
been robbed or blackmailed through my
family? This fellow? Oh, he’s a harmless
old professor of philosophy who used to be
on the staff at Hartmoor College. Taught
metaphysics, you see, and it went to his
head. Expounding the science of the ab-
stract, supernatural muscular expression,
and so forth. It went to his head and he
came out with a book so insane that the
youngest proofreader of my staff would

WEIRD TALES

have instantly rejected it. I read a little
of it because I never liked that old fire-
eater of a Wexel who was spilling con-
demnation over every little thing he didn’t
happen to agree with at the moment. I
might even have published it, had the costs
been taken care of, purely for the sake of
arousing interest in my companies. Qitics
represent a lot of free advertising. But
some columnist manufactured such a set
of standard quips out of the theories and
conclusions of the book that I dropped the
idea entirely. So here he is threatening me
with violent death and there’s nary a
weapon in his hands! Would you be kind
enough to send a wagon for the gentle-
man? I’m so sleepy I’m beginning to see
blue!”

"Blue? Where do you see blue?”

“What the devil — excuse me. Commis-
sioner, but is the whole town wacky to-
night? It’s a silly question, but I actually
do see blue. I guess it must be the light,
or else those recently submitted illustra-
tions I was studying before I went to bed.
It’s the professor’s face that loolcs blue there
beyond my desk-lamp; maybe he’s anemic.
He’s a queer little chap and I’m still won-
dering how he got in. Hasn’t said a word
since he told me he killed Wexel tonight.
It’s certainly strange how illusion will
make a perfect fool of a man, isn’t ”

"Amherst!” shouted the Commissioner,
shutting off the voluble outpour. "He did
kill Wexel! Now who is be?’’

There was a moment’s pause before the
eminent publisher spoke again in altered
tones.

“I can’t believe it! Wexel dead . . .
this shrinking violet a murderer? No!
Why, Professor Lucian Peters might get
angry, but I’ll bet you he would never in-
tentionally harm even a butterfly. He’s
never harmed anybody. All his life, so he
once told me, has been spent working on
experiments to prove that the higher types
of mentality are able to subordinate mus-

cular reflexes; some anomalous theory
about the ant and the elephant, the meek
and the strong or the superiority of brains
over brawn; some of that old rehash that
manufactured fairy-tales a thousand years
ago. And if you think little Lucian re-
sembles a Greek wrestler. I’m sorry. Com-
missioner, because I’m positive he will
never find a place on your monster crimi-
nal record . . . sorry for your ambitions,
too, Lucian! But you’ll never be more
than a niunber in the asylum.”

“Amherst!” roared the Commissioner
into the mouthpiece. "Keep your gun on
him! Keep the desk between the two of
you until we get there!”

"Why, there’s no danger ... sit down.
Professor! I said sit down. You dratted
fool, do I have to shoot you?”

Three sharp punctuations echoed aaoss
the wires to the Commissioner’s ears be-
fore he heard a muffled click. Somewhere
at the other end of the connection a voice
said "Ah-ah-h-h!” The policemen in the
room stared at the dripping perspiration on
their superior’s forehead.

"Amherst! Mr. Amherst!”

“That was the last, sir,” said a new,
strangely serene voice in the other ear-
piece. "That will be all, thank you.
Good-bye.”

“Amherst!” the Commissioner screamed.
With a wild light in his eyes he cried:
"Peters! Are you there?”

At the otlier end of the line a hand
silently replaced the receiver.

4. The Inevitable Last

TAAWN flooded the city’s turrets before
-^the sleepy-eyed and baffled detectives
had completed their useless search of the
dwelling in which Philip Amlierst lay dead
with a broken neck and a twisted, horror-
stricken face. The Commissioner’s face
might have been carven from marble. The
murderer had not aroused any of the pub-

THE UTTLE MAN

Usher’s many servants, nor had he forced a
single door or window to accomplish his
sinister purpose, an interview with a widely
known publisher which had terminated
with the breaking of that publisher’s neck.

"Find the home of Professor Lucian
Peters and surround it,’’ ordered the Com-
missioner. "But don’t break in! If he
should come out — if anyone should come
out — follow, but do not attempt an arrest.
Too many neclcs! . .

An amber sun rose in its glory above a
half -awakened city as the Commissioner,
with two accompanying cars and a bevy of
motorcycles, sped over the macadam to-
ward the two-story cottage which Informa-
tion had told him was the residence of
Professor Peters. The site of the dwelling
was a full two miles outside of the city’s
limits.

"We’ve no authority here,’’ protested
Captain Travers, disregarding the set faces
of his companions.

"My friend, we have authority to strive
for human welfare — as far as mankind’s
authority extends!’’ announced the Com-
missioner.

The cottage of Profesor Peters was a
ramshackle affair of plaster and shingles.
Its windows were without shades and the
condition of its entranceway emphasized
either poverty or extreme neglect. Flanked
by puzzled men who fingered automatics
and machine-guns, the Commissioner’s
party ascended the broken steps of a dilapi-
dated porch and entered a very bare and
unkempt kitchen. Beyond it the living-
room and bedroom were equally disor-
dered, littered with ponderous volumes of
scientific literature. The heavy books
sprawled everywhere over tables, mantel-
pieces and underfoot. The fireplace was
choked with innumerable crushed sheets on
which hand-printed and unfinished alge-
braical equations were transcribed in a
wavering hand. Obviously some scholar
had spent considerable time there, ignor-

ing such trifles as neatness and cleanliness,
or even meals, for there were crunched bis-
cuit fragments mingled with a saucer of
muddy liquid which once might have been
coffee.

Someone said: "Upstairs. To the
Commissioner’s aedit, he preceded his
men.

And there they discovered Professor
Lucian Peters hanging from a fixture, very
blue in the face and quite ignorant of their
arrival.

"Could O’Hara be reached at this
hour?’’ inquired the Commissioner. "I’d
like positive identification. It’s hardly
possible to believe that this is the man
responsible for this series of murders!’’

"Amherst named him!” insisted Captain
Travers. "And O’Hara’s outside. You
couldn’t send ffiat stubborn Irishman home
today if you docked his pay!”

"Bring him in!”

H ad it been an inspection, Patrolman
James O’Hara might have trembled in
his socks, but at the moment he was not
awed before the city’s dignitaries. His eyes
went straight to the dangling thing hang-
ing from the ceiling’s chandelier and his
nostrils quivered similar to a hound’s clos-
ing in on the last yards of the trail.

"So this is the end,” he said as if speak-
ing to himself alone. "Suicide. I wonder
why he quit.”

"O’Hara!” snapped the Commissioner.
"Can you identify this — this man?”

"\55^y, it’s him, of course. It’s the lit-
tle fellow who tossed me around like a
feather last night.”

There was a short silence in the room
through which the rasping tones of the
medical examiner broke like an unexpected
tidal wave rushing over a calm lagoon.

"I insist. Commissioner,” declared the
world-weary follower of Hippocrates, "that
this man Lucian Peters hung himself more
thatx forty-eight hours ago!”

"like Lucifer cast out of Heaven, I fell with unbelievable velocity.”

eturn From Death

By BRUCE BRYAN

An unusual story about a scientific experiment that failed — the terrific
experiences of a man whose body lay in the doctor’s ice-box

^ ^ ANT we get on with it, Doc?”

1 The irritation in my voice

was an unconscious screen to
the stark fear that was welling up in my
soul.

Bixby turned around slowly, grotesque
with his high-domed forehead aqd watery
eyes behind thick-lensed glasses. In his
hand was a paper.

"I know how you feel, old man," he
said quietly. “We’U get started right
away. There are just a few necessary pre-
liminaries. You’ve got the five thousand
deposited to your credit, but I’ve got to
protect myself. Here is a typewritten form
that releases me from responsibility in the
— ah — in the event that the experiment is
not a success.” " ^

I grunted, rolling over on the white-
enameled steel tray in which I was stretched
ai. full length. 'The tray was mounted on
rollers, and except that it was narrower,
resembled an operating-table.

"In the event of my death is what you
mean, isn’t it. Doc?” I asked, grinning
rather bleakly.

Bixby shrugged. His weak eyes re-
garded me almost disinterestedly through
those heavy lenses.

"You realize as well as I do. Pierce,
that there is always that chance. My ex-
periments heretofore have never extended
beyond the use of dogs or smaller animals.
But you’ve seen it proved to your own
satisfaction that, after freezing them to
death, I have in every case been able to

bring them back to life. Sign this, please."

Taking the paper from him, I waited
while he hunted up a pen. My gaze trav-
eled about the interior of the room. It
was fitted up as a laboratory, and its com-
pleteness no doubt would liave delighted
the heart of any scientist alive. Bixby had
money and to spare, and had surrounded
himself with an experimental surgeon’s
paradise. But to me there was something
cold and impersonal in those shelves of
labeled bottles, those racks of gleaming
metal instruments, and the complicated
network of glass tubery that ran all over
the place.

At one end of the laboratory was a large
mechanical oven, flanked by standing cyl-
inders of compressed gasses. Near the door
at the opposite end squatted a huge elec-
tric refrigerating-plant. It stood about
eight feet high, its flat-tiled top just brush-
ing the ceiling, and was equipped with
massive glass-paned doors that opened into
vault-like compartments. Sliding roller
trays, similar to the one on which I lay
naked, fitted snugly into these apertures.
As my eyes dwelt momentarily on this great
ice box, reminiscent of an up-to-date
morgue, an involuntary shudder ran
through me.

And why not? Within the next few
minutes I would be rolled into its cold em-
brace like a slab of beef in a butcher’s
shop.

Bixby shoved a pen toward me. With
the jerlsy speed of nervous hysteria, I

WEIRD TALES

scrawled my name at the bottom of the
release. The doctor glanced at it perfunc-
torily, folded the paper and put it in his
pocket.

"And now," he said, looking at his
watch, "we may as well begin.”

I TRIED to smile indifferently, but I
know the gesture was a mockery. Bixby
had assured me there would be no real
pain — just the temporary discomfort many
a man has suffered when caught in a sub-
zero blizzard. The temperature in the ice
box, he said, would drop gradually to
thirty below, and I would slip easily into
slumber. Eternal sleep, from which he
promised to recall me.

Perhaps he could — and perhaps he
couldn’t. In any case, I reflected bitterly,
what difference would it make.^ We’d
gone all over this before. I was here of
my own free will, a living human subject
for Bixby’s experiment — the last link in an
uncompleted chain. The circumstances
that led up to my presence in the doctor’s
laboratory are unimportant. Like many an-
other poor mortal I load made a mess of
my life, from an economic point of view,
and things had been at low tide for so
long that I held no hope of their ever be-
coming better.

Only a few nights before I had been
contemplating suicide — contemplating it
with the deadly seriousness of one to whom
all tlrat matters is tire way and means.
And even as I contrasted in my mind the
comparative efflcacy of the rope or gun,
my eyes chanced to fall on that item in
the daily paper in which those lethal
articles had been v/rapped. It related the
astonishing work of Doctor Theophilus
Bixby, the eminent scientist who had de-
voted a lifetime of research toward solv-
ing the black riddle of death.

Through the press an astounded world
read of his revivification from actual death
of guinea-pigs, and even dogs, frozen stiff

for ten or twelve hours. On one hand the
world of science was divided, some ac-
claiming, some doubting his results.
Alined solidly against him on the other
side were the church and the association
for the prevention of cruelty to animals.

It appealed to me. Here was the ulti-
mate gamble. And I was the ofie man on
earth to offer up a life as the stake. I
couldn’t lose!

Fortunately, Bixby lived in the same
city.

So I put away the gim and the rope,
and walked through the snow of a late
December afternoon to his address.

His secretary met me at the door of the
big mansion in which he resided and main-
tained his laboratories. Taking in my seedy
appearance, he told me coldly enough that
the doctor was out. I said I’d wait. At-
tempts to dissuade me had no effect.
Finally, Bixby himself came out.

"Now see here, my man,” he began in
a bluster, his weak eyes flashing annoyance
tlirough those ridiculous lenses.

I stood up, eye to eye with him.

"Doctor,” I asked quietly, "do I look
like a dog?”

A red flush mantled the scientist’s pale
cheeks.

"Do you — do you ... see here,” he
stuttered angrily, "what do you want?
Didn’t my secretary tell you ”

"Forget that. Doc,” I advised dryly. "I
don’t want anything. I’m not asking; I’m
offering!”

That stopped him. For a moment he
forgot his anger in his bewilderment.

"Offering? Offering what?”

I smiled, a little bitterly. Not much,
perhaps. Only a human life. There was
still time to back out. Then I cast the die.

"I’m offering myself. Doc — as your dog.
And I don’t think you’ll have to buy a li-
cense tag for me, either.”

Bixby wasn’t dumb. Perhaps he had
done most of his work with animals, but

RETURN FROM DEATH

he wa5 no novice with human nature. His
weak little eyes widened.

"Come into my office,” he said abruptly,
standing aside.

And so it was arranged. Bixby was no
piker; there’s nothing small about a man
who probes the hidden laws of the cos-
mos. And he could well afford to pay as
he went. For my part in the experiment,
a part that was at once the easiest and the
hardest, I was to receive five thousand dol-
lars deposited to my account in any bank
I chose. In case I didn’t come back to
claim it, the money would go to my only
living relative — ». sister back in Kansas
whom I hadn’t seen in years.

So there I was, supine on the enameled
tray in Bixby ’s laboratory, waiting for him
to start in. Already vague wisps of terror
were coding about my brain — strange in a
man who had been on the point of taking
bis own life by a much more violent means.

T he doctor rolled a small table up close
beside me. On its surface was a large
amber-colored jar fitted with a double
stopper from which sprouted a dialed gage
and an intricate arrangement of thin glass
tubes made flexible with rubber connec-
tions. Bixby tinkered with this for a mo-
ment, tlien approached me with an alcohol-
soaked sponge in one hand and a scalpel
in the other.

"First,” he said, smiling with what in a
physician might have been termed a suave
bedside manner, "we must have a minor
transfusion.”

With expert fingers he sponged a small
spot on my arm, made a deft incision with
the knife, and unhurriedly inserted the
nozzle of one of the tubes leading from
the jar.

"A blood transfusion, Doc.^” I queried
nervously. "Am I anemic?”

“Quite the contrary,” he assured me,
his eyes on the dial. "Your blood is ex-
ceptionally healthy — and full-bodied.

What we want to do is guard against pos-
sible clotting while — while you are in a
state of suspended animation. To thin your
blood out to the necessary constituency I
am injecting a small amount of a com-
pound derived from one of my own
formulae. Its chief elements are composed
of a solution of ordinary sugar, glycerin
and citric acid. And now, you will please
remain as quiet as possible.”

When the transfusion was complete and
the wound on my arm taped, he drew out
his watch. "It is now exactly nine-seven-
teen,” he said, with no apparent relevancy.
"Just one thing more, and we are ready.”

Dipping a cotton swab into a small
vial, he applied some sort of vaseline-like
substance to each of my nostrils. Then he
started to roll the tray on which I lay to-
ward the huge refrigerator. One of its
doors gaped open, waiting, like the brazen
vent in a glowering idol of Moloch, to
welcome a sacrificial victim to its fiery maw.
Only here the flame was cold and slow
with promise of a lingering death. . . .

"Wait, Doc!” I gasped shakily. "How
— ^how about an anesthetic first?”

Bixby shook his head.

"Can’t risk it,” he explained. "Ether
fumes imprisoned in the limgs and brain
might serve to break down the blood cor-
puscles, defeating our purpose. I’m afraid
you’ll have to take it on the chin.”

He hesitated, as if waiting to see whether
I’d change my mind at the last moment.

For a minute I digested his words. I
had read in the same newspaper account
of his experiments on dogs some of the
comments other scientists had made re-
garding his work. One of them, after ex-
amining a resurrected canine, pointed out
that its mind was affected. The animal was
able to walk about, to eat and sleep, but
commands it had previously understood
now seemed to fall on deaf ears. Yet the
dog was not deaf. It had, the savant im-
plied, become what in a human being

WEIRD TALES

would be termed a half-wit — an imbecile.
It apparently lived in a daze, failing to rec-
ognize its own master. Something was
gone from its intelligence — something had
not come back from death!

To this Bixby had only one answer: no
one knew much about the canine brain. The
animal in question had, necessarily, under-
gone a terrific shock. It was, he claimed,
already beginning to recover from its ex-
perience. He even predicted that in a
few weeks it would become entirely nor-
mal. Nevertheless, his colleagues shook
their heads. Bixby had done a wonderful
thing, was their verdict It was an ac-
complishment unique in the annals of
medicine. But he had neither conquered
death nor solved any of its age-old secrets.
Let him, therefore, be sure to confine his
researches to animals.

Perhaps I sensed a quiet scorn in the
doctor’s uiuuffled patience. At any rate,
something stiffened my wavering will. I
had made a bargain, and I’d stick to it.

“If I can’t go out unconscious. Doc,” I
argued, “how about a little drink before
putting me on ice? Some artificial courage
can’t do any harm. Preserve my innards,
if anything.”

Bixby smiled. He poured me a gener-
ous shot of Scotch. I downed it with a
feeling of ave atque vale and handed back
the glass.

I took a long breath. "Okay, Doc,” I
whispered. “Let’s go!”

Bixby said nothing. He wheeled me
head-first up to the open door of the re-
frigerator, elevated the tray to the proper
level and fitted the rollers into the groove
of the coffin-like compartment. He bent
over me, ghoulish behind those crazy
glasses, and held out his hand.

“Good luck!” he said.

“Cheerio, Doc!” I grinned back at him.

The tray slid easily into the great ice-
box. There was a thud at my feet as the
door was slammed shut, and through the

thick pane I could see Bixby ’s hand shove
down the lever that locked it from the
outside. I exhaled slowdy. There w’as no
drawing back now; I was committed to
man’s last and greatest adventure.

'C^OR several minutes I must have lain
rigid and still in the semi-gloom of
that narrow compartment, like one who is
listening for the footsteps of a ghost. What
are the thoughts of a man about to die?
I ought to knov/, but somehow I have no
clear recollection of the vagaries of my
mind after that heavy door shut me off
from everything that lived. Somewhere I
have read that when death is imminent a
man’s past unreels before his eyes like a
high-speed cinema. If such was the case
with me, I don’t remember it. I simply
lay there, flat on my back, and all sense of
panic had vanished. Yet neither did I feel
that hopeless longing for death that had
brought me to this place.

For what seem.ed an eternity, I lay abso-
lutely quiescent, waiting for the first chill
of death’s icy fingers. My belly was warm
wdth the flush of raw liquor and I was, to
be truthful, almost lethargic in physical
comfort. Then I heard a muffled click,
followed almost instantly by a steady vi-
brating hum. Bixby must have thrown
the switch.

It won’t be long now, I thought. Soon
I’d begin to shiver. I’d turn numb and
blue, my teeth would chatter, and after an
agonizing interval I would be sucked into
swift oblivion. But when? When? Sud-
denly I was shaken by an intense desire to
live — to breathe warm air, to eat warm
food, to wear warm clothes! The drone of
electricity rose to a crescendo, throbbing
through my head, torturing my pulse into
a compelling rhytlim. It sang a dirge of
dissolution in my ears, forced a scream to
my lips. I tried to sit up. My head banged
against the low shelf above, and I sank
down, half stunned.

RETURN FROM DEATH

The horrible droning seemed to lessen
with my consciousness. I felt stifled. I
strangled for breath. Of course, this place
was air-tight! And then — I shivered. At
last, insidious tentacles of cold were reach-
ing out for me. My limbs stiffened; I
shuddered like a person afflicted with trop-
ical fever. This, I thought frantically. Is
the begiiming of the end. This is the
Gethsemane that will win undying fame
for Bixby — and for me an obscure para-
graph in some ponderous medical brochure.

I pounded on the walls, on the shelf
above me, until my knuckles were bloody.
I kicked at the heavy door until my toes
felt as if they were broken. Gasping for
breath, I fell back, my strength gone. A
great wave of light, intolerable, blazing,
flashed before my eyes. I closed them,
blinded. Long streamers of white-hot
lightning flickered through the lids, like
the aurora borealis casting lambent flame
athwart a polar sea. Swiftly I slipped into
blackness, complete, engulfing.

A curious sensation of lightness came
with returning consciousness. I felt like
a wraith of smoke, bending before an un-
seen draft. Slowly, I opened my eyes, fear-
ful of whatever sights the dead must look
upon. Amazement drove every other emo-
tion from my mind. I was staring at the
huge refrigerator — not from the gloomy
constriction of that narrow compartment,
but from the floor of the laboratory out-
side. My eyes were riveted on the closed
and bolted door behind which was the
tray on which I had lain.

For a moment I stood there in a trance
of unbelief. A feeling of overwhelming
relief welled up in my soul. I was alive!
The experiment had failed. But what was
I doing standing here in front of the ice-
box? How did I get here? And where
was Bixby?

These questions, to which there seemed
no answer, made me nervous. And as a
man does, when he feels fidgety, I reached

for a cigarette. I don’t remember much
about the absurdly inconsequential move-
ments connected with getting the pack out
of my pocket, abstracting a peg and light-
ing it. AU I recall is the curious lack of
effort and the seeming weightlessness of
my hands. It was as if I had no sooner de-
sired a smoke than I found myself puffing
away.

A noise came from the other room, and
I decided that Bixby must be in there. The
door was closed, but it didn’t occur to me
to knock. Indeed, it seemed to me that
one instant -I heard that queer tinkering
sound and the next instant I was there in
the other room looking down at the doc-
tor. He was crouching on the floor be-
side the generator that ran the refrigerator.
There was a screw-driver in his hand and
he was doing something to the brushes.
Apparently he hadn’t heard me come in,
so I spoke to him.

BijAy didn’t answer. He went right on
working, as if he had not heard me. I
spoke again, louder. Still he paid no at-
tention. I began to get mad. The devil
with him, I thought; I’ll go back to tlie
laboratory and pour myself another drink
of that Scotch. And so suddenly it almost
scared me, I found myself back in the
laboratory with a glass of whisky in my
hand.

As I tossed it off, that great ice-box
caught my eye again. I stared at it with a
sort of morbid fascination, waiting for the
alcohol to send its permeating warmth
through my veins. But strangely, there was
no glow such as usually accompanied a stiff
drink. An inexplicable sensation of un-
certainty was coming over me. Either I
had become subject to momentary fits of
amnesia, or — something seemed decidedly
wrong.

I found myself standing again in front
of the ice-box, looking at the glass pane
in that heavy door behind which Bixby
had locked me. Something vague in the

WEIRD TALES

shadow inside caught my eye and I bent
over to peer closer. Then I got my first
definite shock; then I began to realize how
things really were. Because as I stood out-
side in the laboratory and gazed into the
compartment through that glass window I
saw — myself lying inside, stretched out
naked on the trayl

rriHE cigarette in my hand dropped to
-L the floor. Realization shook me from
head to foot. Now I knew why I seemed
so weightless, why doors seemed to mean
nothing to me, why I moved about with
such effortless ease and why distance was
non-existent when I wanted to move from
one place to another! I was dead! Dead!
I could see my own body lying frozen in-
side that ice-box, and yet there I stood out-
side, fully clothed and shivering with a
nameless dread.

Things began to whirl crazily before my
eyes. The walls of the room leaned and
tottered, converging into unimaginable
angles, and I could look through them —
through them and beyond into endless di-
mensions. I was dizzy, nauseated. My
eyes were too heavy to keep open. I was
caught up in a terrific maelstrom of forces,
whirled to terrifying heights. With the
breathless velocity of a comet I seemed to
be hurled through empty space. Then
gradually the vertiginous sensation abated.
I forced my eyes open. Fiery, incandescent
lights flashed past me, but aside from these
I could see nothing that moved.

Still I seemed to be traveling with the
speed of thought through a colorless im-
mensity, traveling through space and
through time, while the eons flitted past.
I looked down from what felt an incon-
ceivable height, and stared with uncom-
prehending awe at what might have been
the earth itself, dropping out of sight like
the rapidly diminishing tail-light of an ex-
press train at night.

Finally all sense of movement left me.

I might have been standing on a platform
in the intergalactic reaches, only there was
nothing under my feet. There was no
sensation of gravity or balance left to me.
Only — thought. Unhampered, unconfined
thought — and the knowledge that I was
dead. No heaven and no hell, such as I
had been taught in Sunday school. Only
a vast solitude and an intelligence filled
with untranslatable wonder.

How long this continued I do not know.
Eons, perhaps, dedicated to the tempering
of a newly released soul. I was a bodi-
less entity adrift in endless nothingness,
surrounded by unseen universes of wheel-
ing planets and writhing, gaseous nebulae.
But something was wrong — something was
definitely out of tune with the cosmic laws
in which I was as yet unabsorbed. I sensed
that I was an alien mote here, because —
because I wanted to live!

That was it! I was swept by an intense
longing for the life I had voluntarily given
up. I yearned for the impersonal coldness
of that vault-like compartment in Bixby’s
ice-box. I craved the heartaches and dis-
appointments, the physical discomforts of
the drab existence I had renounced. There
could be no peace even in death, in the face
of such an unsatisfied craving.

Bixby and his experiment — ^how long
ago that seemed! They were a shadowy
tradition from a dim past. Vaguely I won-
dered about him. Was he carrying on his
researches with other — subjects? For, of
course, he had failed to recall me from
death. I felt a sudden sensation of mirth.
What an infinitesimal atom was Bixby, and
what a mad dream he had cherished! Who
and what was man, to think of solving the
riddle of being? No doubt Bixby and all
his generation had been in their graves a
thousand years. Time was the merest flick
of an eyelash here, where I sensed worlds
being brought forth in fire and dying in
frozen loneliness — all within the space of
time it takes to utter these words.

RETURN FROM DEATH

Ages ago Bixby was forgotten, even to
science — because his experiment had
failed. I had gambled and lost. But what
difference did it make? Even if I had
lived out a full life, surrounded by all the
luxuries of the rich — what difference
would it make now?

But Bixby — had — failed! The thought
droned in my mind. He could bring ani-
mals back to a semblance of life, but when
he tried the same thing with a human be-
ing he was baiting God Himself!

I found myself wondering about my sis-
ter. Had she, in those ages long past,
received the five thousand dollars I never
returned to claim? And what had she done
with it? What did she think of me, the
wastrel brother who had bequeathed it to
her? Even when I was alive it had been
several years since I saw her. In a way
it was a satisfaction to know that I had
repaid her contempt and disdain with such
a sum of money. It was a personal grati-
fication, because my sister had always been
small-natured and tight-fisted.

I could remember, as if it were only
yesterday, when I came home from the
war, broke and with no prospects.

"You can’t hang around here for ever,
Jim,” she snapped at me on the second
day. "You’ve got to get out and dig your-
self up a job. Just because you’re a war
hero is no reason why you can loaf around
my house.”

Then it was I learned that the home I
had lived in since boyhood had passed,
with the death of my mother, to her — and
her husband. Naturally, I got out. Got
out and drifted, from one job to another.
But now I wondered about my sister. I
wondered what she had to say when she
received the five thousand dollars. The
wonder became an obsession. Her thin,
sharp-featured face with its querulously
suspicious expression rose before my eyes.

And even as I conjured up an image of
her in my mind that feeling of vertigo as-

sailed me again. Once more I was caught
up like a bit of chaff in a whirling tempest
of luiknown forces. The bottom seemed
to drop out of my heart. Like Lucifer
cast out of heaven, I fell with unbeliev-
able velocity. Far below, millions of light-
years away, the green star of earth came
into view. It waxed and swelled as I
hurtled toward it with the speed of
thought, drawn irresistibly back to that clay
from which I had sprang.

F aster and faster I fell. Billowing
seas and tumbling mountains rushed
toward me. I plunged into the atmos-
pheric blanket that shrouds earth from
the bitter cold of interstellar space, and
air whistled past me like the keening of
lost souls in Erebus. Consciousness was
reft from me in great welters of spiraling
light.

I was standing on the porch of my sis-
ter’s house in Kansas. No sense of won-
der was left in me; just a subservient ac-
ceptance. How I came there or why did
not occur to me. I put my hand on the
bell and pushed. But no one answered.
I tried again, but I could hear no muffled
ring from within and no approaching foot-
steps. Well, I decided, there’s no reason
why I shouldn’t walk on in. And before
the thought was completed in my mine},
there I was inside, standing in the library.
I faced a desk, behind which my sister was
sitting.

She didn’t look up. Her husband was
beside her, and I saw that they were read-
ing a letter.

"Hello, Sis,” I said. *T guess you’re
surprised to see -me.”

But she paid no attention, went right on
reading. There was an odd expression in
her narrow eyes. Her husband was beam-
ing with delight.

“Hey, Sis!” I began again, louder.

She ignored me utterly and looked up
at her husband.

WEIRD TALES

"It’s unbelievable, Henry,” she ex-
claimed. "Five thousand dollars! Where
in the world could he ever have gotten so
much money I know he could never have
saved it — he wasn’t the saving kind. Do
you suppose he— -stole it?”

My brother-in-law cleared his throat.

"Now, my dear,” he said unctuously,
"we mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth,
you know. Just think! Now we can get
that new car, and you can have your fur
coat. I shouldn’t wonder but what we
could have the house painted in the spring,
too. Even after the funeral expenses are
deducted we should have a tidy sum left.”

My sister’s brow wrinkled aggressively.

"Funeral expenses!” she repeated. "This
letter doesn’t say anything about the
funeral expenses coming out of this
money.”

Henry shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes, I know, dear. But you, being his
only living relative, you know. . . . Don’t
you think we ought to write and offer ”

My sister whirled on him angrily.

"Henry, are you a fool?” she cried.
"We’ll do nothing of the sort. Let the
authorities bury him, if they haven’t done
it already.”

Her husband shrugged nervously and
drew back a step.

"But, my dear,” he protested mildly.
"You know that means potter’s field. And
after all, he’s your brother.”

My sister laughed coldly.

"You just keep your mouth shut, Henry.
It v/on’t matter to him — now.”

A cold rage had been growing in me as
I listened to this conversation. I was dis-
gusted with my sister, aghast that I had
actually willed five thousand dollars — the
price of my life — to such a warped creature.
Why — oh, God! — why did Bixby’s experi-
ment have to fail?

Thought of the doctor brought me up-
right, trembling. If my sister was still
alive — then Bixby must be alive, too. I

wanted to see him, to know what he was
doing. What had he done with my body?
Where was I buried? Surely, Bixby w'ould
not see me consigned to potter’s field.

The desire to see him became an in-
satiable craving. He was half a continent
away, and I began to think of how I should
travel this distance. But no sooner was I
considering ways and means than again I
was seized in that vortex of cosmic forces,
that whirlpool in which the senses reeled
dizzily until blackness descended over
everything.'. . .

I WAS back in Bixby’s laboratory,
standing in front of that awful ice-box.
'The doctor was nowhere in sight, but from
the other room came that subdued tinker-
ing sound that I had heard — how many
ages before! I began to shiver, overcome
with a dreadful premonition. Bending
over, I stared through the glass pane of the
refrigerator compartment. Yes, by heaven!
There was my body, still reclining naked
on the enameled tray. It drew me like a
magnet. An intolerable longing seized me.
I wanted — I wanted to be with myself
again. I wanted . . .

And even as I began to understand the
longing, I felt myself being drav/n for-
ward like a moth to a flame. I felt myself
going through that closed and bolted door,
seeping into the air-tight vault through the
invisible cracks as if I were no more solid
than a tendril of gas. I was inside, hemmed
in by narrow walls and the low shelf above.
In the gloom I felt the coldness of my own
body, looked into my own glazed, unsee-
ing eyes. I threw my arms about the
corpse. . . .

A great wave of light, intolerable, blaz-
ing, flashed before my eyes. I closed them,
blinded. Long streamers of white-hot
lightning flickered through the lids, like
the aurora borealis casting lambent flame
athwart a polar sea. Swiftly I slipped into
blackness, complete, engulfing, with a roar

RETURN FROM DEATH

in my ears like angry surf thundering on a
rocky coast.

Something choked me. I gagged, unable
to catch my breath, conscious of a burn-
ing sensation in my throat. A cloying,
powerful odor clung about my nostrils.
I wanted to sleep, to rest, to lie still and
forget everything in eternal slumber, feut
that pungent scent kept dragging at my
senses. My eyes opened wide. Bixby was
bending over me, peering through his
heavy glasses with a queer mixture of
anxiety and disgust. He was holding some
sort of small vial to my nose — the source
of that powerful aroma.

"Well, well!” he said jerkily. "How do
you ”

I sat up suddenly, interrupting him with
a wild shout.

"Doc!” I cried. "You did it! You
did it!”

His small, w'atcry eyes widened in sur-
prise. He tried to push me back.

"Wait,” he purred soothingly. "Wait
a min ”

But I wouldn’t be stopped.

"Bixby!” I grasped his arm, shook him.
"The experiment was a success! You’re
the greatest man in tlie world! You’ve
brought me back from the grave — oh, God!
Back from death!”

I couldn’t control my emotion. I broke
down and wept, while Bixby stood off and
regarded me with a perplexed frown.
Finally he forced something on me. Scotch!
I drained it, shaking' in every nerve. The
doctor waited. I steadied, grew quieter.

“Pierce!” Bixby placed his hand on my
shoulder. "I’ve got something to tell you.”
He paused uncertainly.

I was scarcely listening to him, overcome
with the wonder of my return from death.
But his words bored insistently into my
consciousness, compelling my attention.

". . . there’s something mighty queer,”
he was saying in his dry little voice. "When
I came in a few moments ago there was a

cigarette butt on the floor in front of the
refrigerator. And I thought I smelled
smoke. I thought I smelled it in the other
room, too. But I never smoke. And you
— ^you were locked in that ice-box.”

“Yes, Doc, yes!” I broke in. "That’s
what I want to tell you about. You’ll never
believe ”

"Wait, Pierce!” 'The doctor was impera-
tive. "That can wait. You’ve got to calm
down. As I was saying, after I locked you
in the compartment in the refrigerator I
went into the otlier room and threw the
switch that stars the generator. It started
up, all right, but in a moment It began to
sputter. Finally it stopped completely. I
thought perhaps the brushes might be dirty,
so I got a screw-driver. It’s only the work
of a few minutes to clean them. But I
couldn’t get it going again; so I called tlie
electric repair company just a moment ago.
They say they are tied up with business —
can’t send a man out to fix it before tomor-
row. So I’m afraid ”

I stared at him.

"Doc,” I whispered. "You mean *

Bixby nodded.

"We can’t do anything more today. So
I came right back in here and took you
out. I thought at first you had fainted,
and I was a little worried. I brought you
to with whisky and ammonia. How do
you feel now?”

My eyes continued to search his expres-
sionless face.

"You mean — there was no experiment?”
I stammered. ’"That I wasn’t frozen

Bixby laughed shortly.

"Of course not. The generator failed
before there could have been any possible
change in the temperature of that com-
partment.” He drew out his watch. "Why,
man, you haven’t been in there fifteen min-
utes!”

Dazedly, I looked at the watch. It was
exactly nine-thirty.

Vhe

iisherman’s Special

By H. L. THOMSON

An odd little tale about lycanthropy

u A ND so,” said my lean-jawed
/ % share-of-a-seat on the Fisher-
A. JL man’s Special from New York
to Mon tank, "there’s more — much more,
to it than backwoods superstition. Man — ”
he leaned over and pounded my knee with
his hard, brown fist. "I tell you, I know.”

I laughed. I had to. This big, hulking
chap, who had seated himself beside me
when the Special pulled out of Pennsyl-
vania Station, had me jittery with his talk
about the supernatural powers of man.
He’d been at it for over an hour. I shivered,
Patchogue and the Hamptons were behind
us and the wind blasting through the
opened windows of the coach was cold.
Besides, this talk of werewolves and other
things which I had relegated to my adoles-
cence caused goose-bumps to shoot along
my spine.

"I’ll tell you a queer story,” com-
menced my seatmate. "Back in my coun-
try

I looked at him quickly. He didn’t
look like a foreigner to me.

He grinned. "I’ve been here a long
time,” he said.

"You certainly have no trace of an
accent,” I said. "English?”

"No. Swedish. A man who has to
travel a lot — first in one country, then
another — soon loses his accent.”

"I suppose so,” I told him.

"I come from a small town in the ex-
treme northern part of Sweden,” he said.
"Many queer and unnatural things happen
there. There are werewolves — men who,
at will, turn themselves into wolf-men and
66

roam the country-side, bringing death,
misery, and stark, wild-eyed horror.” Fie
shuddered and continued. "It’s nothing
new. It’s old — old. It’s been going on
since the beginning of time. It’s written
of in musty books and talked of furtively
as darkness falls. Every year at the begin-
ning of the Christmas season, that’s when
it happens. It’s when the snow bums blue
with the coming dark, and squeals be-
neath your boots. The conversion of men
into beasts! It has always been so. They
descend upon the helpless inhabitants of
ancient villages and destroy them.”

"A lot of good yarns have been spun
around that sort of thing,” I said. "Inter-
esting reading. Good stuff!”

His steady eyes stared straight ahead
and he didn’t answer me for a minute or
two. Then he jerked his head impatiently.
"Up there — just before night — ^when the
snow is so white it turns blue and squeals

beneath your boots like a living thing ”

His voice died away as if he were living
a million miles away.

He continued in the same singsong
voice, "There in the town where I grew
up, lived tw'o brothers. Both were tall,
straight and strong. They loved the same
girl, but she preferred the older brother.
He was good and steady, and the young
one” — ^his voice became harsh — "was a
fool. Selma — that was her name. She
married the older brother early one spring,
and the three of them lived together in
their old, whitewashed house near the end
of the village. But, the happiness of his
brother and Selma kept misery gnawing at

THE FISHERMAN’S SPECIAL

the innards of the younger brother. He
grew morose and ugly. He spent his nights
in the town tavern. He’d stay there until
all the lights in the little house were out.
Then he’d go in and throw himself into
bed and fall into drunken slumber.”

I commenced to fidget. I wished
soundly that I was at Montauk or back in
New York. This fellow got on my nerves,
dreamily. I made up my mind to check
him fast during the rush from the train.
I must have missed part of the conversa-
tion. I caught myself up short when I
hear him say "werev.'olves.”

"What’s that?” I asked.

"I said, that the stranger he met in the
tavern one winter’s night told him he could
change himself into a wolf-man and join
the other werewolves on the eve of Christ-
mas.”

I shoved my tongue in my cheek. "He
told the younger brother that?”

He nodded. “Yes. He told him how it
might be done.”

"Did he do it?” I asked.

My somber friend nodded again.

"How?” I asked, smirking. "I might try
it myself if the fish aren’t biting out
here.”

He gripped my arm. "My friend, if you
value your sanity, if you would not rove
the world with the screams of the innocents
in your ears, if you value your hope of
immortality — never try it. 'Hie poor mis-
guided younger brother was a victim of
jealousy — fancied wrongs.”

"We all have ’em,” I said. "How’s it
done?”

"It is done,” he said, glancing over his
shoulder, quickly, "by muttering certain
words ”

“What words?” I interrupted.

"Those I shall not tell you. By mutter-
ing certain words and drinking a cup of
ale to a man-wolf. If lie accepts, it renders
the man-natural worthy of acceptance of
the werewolf state.”

"I’ll have to remember that,” I said.
"I’ve had many a cup of ale with strangers.
All of which reminds me — ^how about a
drink?” I reached for my gimny sack.

"I never drink.”

"Well, here’s to you,” I said, peeling
off the top of my "jug.” Whether the road
bed was rougher than usual, or whether
the train went around a curve, I don’t
know. But, suddenly, my friend fell,
almost in my lap, and my bottle of rye
W’ent out of the window.

Old gloom-face smiled. "I’m sorry,” he
said. "Possibly, I can make it up to you
by finishing my story.

I GRINNED with only one side of my
mouth. "Forget it. Shoot. Did the
younger brother turn himself into a were-
wolf?”

"He did. On the eve of Christmas,
when they strung the tree with popcorn
and red cranberries, his hatred and jealousy
boiled over. He tore out of the house and
went to the tavern. There he filled himself
with spirits and brooded over his loss of
Selma. After a time, he got to his feet and
went into the Torest. There, in his drunk-
enness, he pronounced the words and as-
sumed the wolf form.”

"WTiat’d he do? Go back and gnaw up
his brother?”

"He came back, but first he traveled to ,
the spot which had been made known to
him by the stranger in the tavern. It was
many miles north, beneath the wall of a
ruined castle of some feudal lord. There
he joined hundreds of others, who, in nat-
ural form, were weak, frustrated men such
as he.

"Then the pack set out en masse.
Strong doors were paper before them,
white, unprotected throats their aim.
Shrill gurgling screams of their victims on
the still, cold air whetted their appetites.”

“What about the younger brother — our
hero?” I asked.

WEIRD TALES

*1 haven’t forgotten the younger brother.
He ran with great, leaping bounds straight
to his home. His red tongue lolled from
hi.; gaping mouth. His eyes were green —
green in their madness.”

I frowned. This fellow certainly threw
himself into his story lilce a professional.
He had goose-flesh on my neck.

"This werewolf — this beast — attacked
his brother and the lovely Selma as they
lay in their bed. He felt his own brother’s
hot blood in his dry throat. He shook him
as a terrier does a rag.

“The lovely Selma screamed and tore at
him with her little hands.”

"And no one came to help them?” I
asked.

“You forget. The town was in an up-
roar. The whole pack attacked.”

"And — Selma?” I said.

"Yes — Selma. Selma grabbed the
other brother’s hunting-knife from his belt
on the back of the chair and stabbed at the
werewolf, screaming curses.”

“My God, how ghastly! Did she kill
him?”

He shook his head. "No, she didn’t kill
him — she only tore off his right ear with
the sharp knife, and, in the manner of all
things who attack in the night his own pain
defeated him. He ran out of the house and
from the village. He disappeared into the
dark forest. His red blood stained the
white snow for miles.”

"They could have trailed him that way.”
He shook his head. “No. He assumed
the human form once he was in the forest
and staunched the flow of blood.”

“But the wound,” I protested. "How
could he explain that to the townspeople
— to Selma?”

"He never went back. He ran away.
The people of the town must have thought
he too was a victim of tlie werewolves that
bloody, gory night.”

T he conductor pulled the door of the
coach open. “Montauk! Montauk!”
he called.

All around rs men started whooping
and grabbing up their equipment. 1 sat
quietly for a minute.

"What a story!” I finally managed to
say. "What a story to tell a man when he’s
out at the end of nowhere! I’ve got the
creeps.”

He shrugged. "It was merely to pass the
time. Any sort of conversation to pass
the time. Good luck — good fishing.” He
got up to get his stuff.

"Same to you,” I said, sticking our my
hand.

As my eyes met his, I started, and my
hand dropped nervelessly to my side.

He g.inned crookedly, but that lopsided
twdtching of his face only accentuated the
horror of the livid hole where his right
ear should have been.

Vhe

)ouse of the Three Corpses

By SEABURY QUINN

What weird statues stood guard over the grave of Jose Gutierrez and his
wife? — a tale of poisonous centipedes, weird vengeance,
and a brilliant exploit of Jules de Grandin

W E WERE walking home from
Mrs. Douglas Lemworth’s gar-
den party.

Once a year the Old Dragon of Har-
risonville Society holds a "fair” for blind
and crippled children, and if you are en-
gaged in the professions you attend, buy
several wholly useless knickknacks at out-
rageous prices, drink a glass of punch or
cup of tea and eat a cake or two, then
leave as unobtrusively as possible. Even
in most favorable conditions her parties
are horrendous; tonight it had been a fore-
taste of Purgatory.

Though dark had long since fallen, the
city sweltered in the mid- June heat. Side-
walks and roadways were hot to the touch;
even the moon, just past the full and
shaped like a bent pie-plate, seemed pant-
ing in a febrile sky. Absolutely stirless,
the air seemed pressing down like a black
blanket dipped in steaming water, and as
Jules de Grandin simmered outwardly he
boiled with fury within.

"Grand Dieu des chats,” he fumed,
"what an abominable soiree! It was not
bad enough that they should stifle us with
vapid talk and senseless laughter, that they
should force us to be polite when we
wished to shed our coats and shoes and act
the rowdy; non, cordieu, they must pile
insult upon injury and give us sacre lemon
punch to drink! I am outraged and af-
fronted. I am maimed for life; never

shall I get my face straight from that
dreadful taste!”

Despite my own discomfort I could not
forbear a grin. The look of wrathful in-
credulity upon his face when he discovered
that the lemonade was only lemonade was
funnier than anything Td seen in months.

“Well, cheer up,” I consoled as we
turned from the side street into the ave-
nue, "we’ll be home soon and then we’ll
have a Tom Collins.”

"Ah, lovely thought!” he breathed ec-
statically. "'To shed these so uncomfort-
able clothes, to feel the cool gin trickle
down our throats— my friend, is
not that strange?”

"Eh?” I answered, startled by his sudden
change of subject. "What?”

"Regard her, if you please. La porte de
la maison, she is open.”

Following the direction of his nod I saw
the door of a big house across the street
swing idly on its hinges, displaying a
vista of dimly lighted hall.

In almost any other section of the cit}^
opened front doors on a night like this
would have been natural as hatless men or
girls without their stockings; but not in
Tuscarora Avenue. That street is the last
outpost of the pre-Depressiop era. House-
girls in black bombazine and stiff white
lawn may still be seen at work with mop
and pail upon its low white-marble stoops
at daybreak, lace curtains hang in primly

WEIRD TALES

white defiance of a changing world at its
immaculately polished windows, housemen
in uniform come silent-footed as trained
cats to take the visitor’s hat and gloves and
walking-stick; no matter what the tempera-
ture may be, Tuscarora Avenue’s street
doors are never left open. “Perhaps” — I
began; then — "good heavens!”

Sharp and poignant as an acid-burn,
wordless, but hair-raising in intensity, the
hail came to us from the open door.

^Allans!” de Grandin cried. "Au se-
cours!"

We dashed across the streetj but at the
mansion’s small square porch we paused
involuntarily. The place seemed so sub-
stantially complacent, so smugly assured.
. . . “We shall feel like two poissons
d’avril if what we heard was someone cry-
ing out in a bad dream,” he murmured as
he tapped his stick on the sidewalk. “No
matter, better to be laughed at for our
pains than emulate the priests and Levites
when someone stands in need of help.”

He tiptoed up the steps and pushed the
pearl button by the open door.

Somewhere inside the house a bell
shrilled stridently, called again as he
pressed on the button, and repeated its de-
mand once more as he gave a last impa-
tient jab. But no footsteps on the polished
floor told us that our summons had been
heard.

"Humph, looks as if we were mistaken,
after all,” 1 murmured. “Maybe the cry
came from another house ”

"Sang du diable! Look well, my friend,
and tell me if you see what I see!” Low and
imperative, his whispered conunand came.
Through the open door he pointed toward
the end of the wide hall where an elabo-
rately carved balustrade marked the as-
cent of a flight of winding stairs.

Just below the stair-bend stood a Flor-
entine gilt chair and in it, hunched for-
ward as though the victim of a sudden case
of cramps, sat a man in house-servant’s

livery, green trousers and swallowtail coat
corded with red braid, yellow-and-black
waistcoat striped horizontally, and stiff-
bosomed shirt.

I took the major details of the costume
in subconsciously, for though his shirt-
front was one of the least conspicuous
items of his regalia, it seized and held my
gaze. Across its left side, widening slowly
to the waistcoat’s V, was a dull reddish
stain which profaned the linen’s whiteness
as a sudden shriek might violate a quiet
night. And like a shriek the stain screamed
out one single scarlet word— -Murder!

T^B GRANDIN let his breath out in a
^ suppressed "ba!" as he stepped across
the threshold and advanced upon the seated
man.

"Is he — he’s ” I began, knowing all

the time the answer which his nod con-
firmed.

"Mais out, like a herring,” he replied
as he felt the fellow’s pulse a moment,
then let the lifeless hand fall back. “Un-
less I err more greatly than I think, he died
comme qa” — he snapped his fingers softly;
then:

"Come, let us see what else there is to
see, but have the caution, mon vieux, it
may be we are not alone.”

I reached the door which let off from
the rear of the hall first and laid my hand
upon the knob, but before I had a chance
to turn it he had jerked me back. "Mats
non,” he cautioned, “not that way, my
friend; do this.”

Touching the handle lightly he sprang
the latch, then drew back his foot and
drove a vicious kick against the polished
panels, sending the door crashing back
against the wall.

Poised on his toes he waited for an in-
stant, then grasped the handle of his cane
as if it were a sword-hilt and the lower
part as though it were a scabbard and
pressed soundlessly through the doorway.

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

"Bien," he whispered as he looked back
with a nod, "the way seems clear.” As I
joined him at the threshold:

"Never open doors that way, my friend,
when you are in a house whose shadows
may conceal a murderer. Not long ago,
to jud^e by the condition of that poor one
yonder, someone did a bloody killing; for
all we know he is still here and not at all
averse to sending us to join his other vic-
tim. Had he lurked behind this door he
could have shot you like a dog, or slit
your gizzard with a knife as you came
through, for you were coming from a
lighted room into the dark, and would
have made the perfect mark. Ke, but the
naughty one who would assassinate de
Grandin needs to rise before the sun. I
am not to be caught napping. By no means.
Had a wicked one been standing in con-
cealment by that door, his head would
surely have been soundly knocked against
the wall when I kicked it, much of the
fight would have been banged from him,
and the advantage would be mine. You
apprehend.^”

I nodded appreciation of his wisdom as
we stepped from the dim light of the hall
into the faint gloom of the room beyond.

It was a dining-room, a long, high-ceil-
inged dining-room appointed with the
equipment of gracious living. A long oval
mahogany table of pure Sheraton design
occupied the center of the floor, its pol-
ished surface giving back dim mirrorings
of the pieces with which it had been set.
In the center a silver girandole held a flat
bouquet of early summer roses, a silver
bowl of fruit — grapes, pomegranates and
apricots — stood near the farther end, while
a Sheflield coffee service graced the end
near us. A demi-tasse of eggshell luster-
ware stood near the table edge; another
lay upon its side, its spilled contents dis-
figuring the polished wood. A pair of
diminutive liqueur glasses, not entirely
drained, stood near the coflfee cups, their

facets reflecting the flickering light of tv'o
tall candles burning in high silver stand-
ards at each end of the table. A chair had
been pushed bade as though its occupant
had risen hastily; another lay upon its side
on the floor. To me it seemed as if the
well-bred silence of the room was holding
its breath in shocked surprise at some scene
of violence lately witnessed.

"Nobody’s here,” I whispered, uncon-
sciously and instinctively lowering my
voice as one does in church or at a funeral.
"Maybe they ran out when ”

"You say so.?” he broke in. "Regardez,
s’il vous plait”

He had seized one of the candles from
the table and lifted it above his head,
driving the sliadows farther back into the
corners of the room. As the light strength-
ened he pointed toward a high three-pan-
eled Japanese screen which marked the
entrance to the service-pantry.

Something hot and hard seemed for mi ng
in my throat as my eyes came to rest at
the point toward which his pointing stick
was aimed. Protruding from behind the
screen an inch or so into the beam of
candlelight was sometliing which picked
up the rays and threw them back in di-
chromatic reflections, a woman’s silver-kid
evening sandal and the ox-blood lacquer
of her carefully kept toenails.

He strode across the room and folded
back the screen.

She lay upon her side, a rather small,
plump woman with a mass of tawny hair.
One delicately tinted cheek was cradled in
the curve of her bent elbow, and her mane
of bronze-brown hair was swirling uncon-
fined about her face like a cascade of mol-
ten copper. Her white-crepe evening gown,
cut in the severe lines which proclaimed
the art of a master dressmaker, displayed
a rent where the high heel of her sandal
had caught in its hem, her corded girdle
had come unfastened and trailed beside
her on the floor, and on the low-cut bodice

WEIRD TALES

of her frock was a hand-wide soil of red —
such a stain as marked the shirtfront of
the dead servant in the hall.

One glance at her face, the startled, suf-
fering expression, the half-closed eyes, the
partly opened lips, told us it was needless
to inquire further. She too was dead.

BIEN,” de Grandin tweaked the
needle-points of his mustache, "he
was no retailer, this one. When he went
in for murder he did it in the grand man-
ner, n’est-ce-pas? Put the screen back, if
you please, exactly as we found it. We must
leave things intact for the police and the
coroner.”

He led the way into the wide, bay-win-
dowed drawing-room at the front of the
house, raised his candle a moment; then:
"Norn d’un nom d’un nom d’un nom, an-
other!” he exclaimed.

He had not exaggerated. Lying on the
low ottoman beside the door communicat-
ing with the hall was a man in dinner
clothes, dark-skinned, sleek, well groomed,
hands folded peacefully upon his breast,
silk-stockinged ankles crossed, and on the
white surface of his dress shirt was the
same ghastly stain v/hich we had found
upon the servant in the hall and the mur-
dered woman in the dining-room.

De Grandin eyed the oddly composed
corpse in baffled speculation, as if he added
up a column of figures and was puzzled at ,
the unexpected answer. "Que extraordi-'
noire!” he murmured, then, amazingly,
gave vent to a low chuckle. "Comme le
temps de la prohibition, n’est-ce-pas?”

His Gallic humor failed to register with
me. "I don’t see anything so droll about
it," I scowled, "and what had Prohibition
to do with ”

"Tenez, ever literal as a sausage, are
you not, my old one? Cannot you see the
connection? Observe him closely, if you
please. No one ever died like that, not
even in his bed. No, certainly. He was

carried here and arranged thus, much in
the way tlie gangsters of the Prohibition
era laid their victims out when they had
placed them on the spot.

“But yes, this business is clear as water
from a spring. It fairly leaps to meet the
eye. This was no robbery, no casual crime.
It was carefully premeditated, planned and
executed in accordance with a previously-
agreed-upon program, as pitilessly as the
heartlessness of hell. The servant might
have been, and doubtless was, killed to stop
his mouth, the woman looks as if she
might have died in flight, but this one?
Non. He v/as killed, then dragged or car-
ried here, then carefully arranged as if to
fit into his casket.”

Something evil and soft-footed seemed
to stalk into that quiet room. There was
no seeing it or hearing it, only the feeling,
sudden and oppressive, as if the mid-June
heat evaporated and in its place had come
a leering, clammy coldness. Small red ants
seemed crawling on my scalp; there was
an oddly eery prickling in the hollows of
my legs behind the knees. “Let’s get out
of here,” I pleaded. "The police ”

He seemed to waken from a revery.
"But yes, of course,” he assented, "the po-
lice must be notified. Will not you call
them, mon vieux? Ask for the good Cos-
tello; we need his wisdom and experience
in such a case.”

I scurried back into the entranceway,
picked up the receiver, and dialed police
headquarters. No buzzing answered as I
spun the dial. The rubber instrument
might have been a spool of wood for all
the life it showed. Again and again I
snapped the hook down, but without re-
sult.

"You have them — he is coming, the
good sergeant?” de Grandin asked, emerg-
ing from the dining-room with the candle
in one hand, his sword-stick in the other.

"No, I can’t seem to get any response,”
I answered.

TPffi HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

"U’m?” He pressed the instrument
against his ear a moment. "One is not
surprised. The wires have been cut.”

He put the phone back on its tabouret
and his small, keen face, flushed with heat
and excitement, was more like that of an
eager tom-cat than ever.

"My friend,” he told me earnestly, "I
damn think we have put our feet into a
case which will bear scrutinizing.”

"But I thought you’d given up criminal
investigation ”

"En verite, I have so; but this is some-
thing more. Tell me, what does ritualis-
tic murder suggest to your mind?”

"One of two things, a malevolent secret
society or a cult of some sort.”

He nodded. "You have right, my friend.
Murder as such is criminal, though some-
times I think it fully justified; but the
killing of a man with ritual and delibera-
tion is an affront not only to the law, but
to the Lord. It is the devil’s business,
and as such it interests me. Game, let us

go-”

W E HURRIED to the cross street,
walked a block down Myrtle Avenue
and foimd an all-night pharmacy.

"HoU, mon vieux,“ I heard him call as
his connection with headquarters was es-
tablished, "I have a case for you. Non,
great stupid one, not a case of beer, a case
of murder. Three of them, par la barbe
d’un corbeau rouge!”

Then he closed the phone booth door to
shut the traffic noises out, and his animated
conversation came to me only as an unin-
telligible hum.

"The sergeant tells me that the owners
of the house have been living on the Riv-
iera since last year,” he told me as we
started toward the murder mansion. "They
rented it furnished to a family of Span-
iards some eight months ago. That is all
he knows at present, but he is having an
investigation made. As soon as he has

viewed the scene he’ll take us to head-
quarters, where we may find ”

"Look out!” I warned, seizing his el-
bow and dragging him back to the curb as
he stepped down into the street. A long,
black, shiny, low-slung car had swung
around the corner, driven at a furious pace
and missing him by inches.

"Bete, miserable!” he glared at the re-
treating vehicle. "Must you rush him to
his grave so quickly?”

I stared at him, astonished. "What ”

"It was a hearse,” he explained. "One
of those new vehicles designed to simulate
a limousine. Eh bien, one wonders if it
fools the dead man as he rides in it and
makes him think he is alive and going for
a pleasure trip?” He set a cigarette alight,
then muttered angrily: "I saw his number.
I shall report him to the good Costello.”

The big police car, driven like the wind
and turning out for no one, drew along-
side the curb just as we reached the house,
and Costello ran across the sidewalk to
shake hands.

"Tliere musta been some doin’s here,
from what you tell me, sor,” he greeted.

"There were, indeed, my friend. Three
of them there were, one in the entrance-
way, one in the dinging-room, one in the
— mon Dieu, Friend Trowbridge, look!”

I glanced past him into the hall, steel-
ing my nerves against the sight of the dead
houseman keeping silent vigil over his dead
employers, then gasped in sheer astonish-
ment. Everything was as we’d left it; the
hall lamp still glowed warmly in its shade
of bronze fretwork, the big gilt chair still
stood below the curve of the stairway, but
— the murdered man had disappeared.

C OSTELLO mopped his streaming fore-
head with a sopping handkerchief.
"Where’s this here now dead guy, sor?”
he asked.

De Grandin muttered something unin-
telligible as he led us through the hall.

WEIRD TALES

across the darkened dining-room, and
pushed back the carved screen. Nothing
but the smudge of shadow where our
bodies blocked the candlelight was there.

"Parbleu!" de Grandin muttered, tugged
the tip of his mustache, and turned upon
his heel to lead us to the drawing-room.
The low ottoman, upholstered in brocaded
satin, stood in the same position against
the damask-draped wall, but on it was no
sign or trace of the dead man v/e’d seen
ten minutes earlier.

Costello drew a stogie from his pocket
and bit its end off carefully, blowing wisps
of tobacco from his mouth as he struck a
match against his trousers. "There doesn’t
seem to be much doin’ in th’ line o’ mur-
der here right now, sor,’’ he announced,
keeping eyes resolutely fixed upon the
match-flame as he drew a few quick puffs
on his cigar. "Ye’re sure ye seen them
dead folk here — in this house? 'These
buildin’s look enough alike to be all five
o’ th’ Dionne quins. Besides, it’s a hot
lught. We’re apt to see things that ain’t
there. Maybe ”

" 'Maybe’ be double-broiled upon the
grates of blazing hell!” de Grandin almost
shrieked. "Am I a fool, a simpleton, a
zany? Have I been a physician for thirty
years, yet not be able to know when I see
a dead corpse? Ab bah, I tell you ”

Upstairs, apparently from the room im-
mediately above us, there came a sudden
wail,- deep, long-drawn, rising with swift-
tightening tension till it vanished in the
thinness of an overstrained crescendo.

"Howly Mither!” cried Costello.

"Good heavens!” I ejaculated. "What
the ”

"Avec mot, tnes enfants!” de Grandin
shouted. “Come with me. Corpses come
and corpses go, but there is one who needs
our help!”'

With cat-like swiftness he rushed up
the steps, paused a moment at the stair-
head, then turned sharply to the left.

I was close behind him as he scuttled
down the hall and kicked against the door
that led into the chamber just above the
drawing-room. Panting with the labor of
the hurried climb, Costello stood at my
elbow as the door flew back with a bang
and we almost fell into the room.

Sitting in the middle of the floor, stock-
inged feet straight out before her, like a
little girl at play, was a young woman —
twenty-one or -two, I judged — dressed in
a charming dinner frock of pastel blue
georgette, a satin sandal in each hand. As
we entered she shook back the strands of
her almost iridescent black hair from be-
fore her face and beat against the floor
with her slippers, like the trap-drummer
of a band striking his instruments, then
fell to laughing — a high-pitched, eery
laugh; the laugh of utter, irresponsible
idiocy.

"St, si, si, si!” she cried, then fell into a
sort of lilting, rhythmic song. "Escolo-
pendra! La escolopendra! La escolopendra
muy tnhumana;” She drummed a sort of
syncopated accompaniment to the words
against the floor with her sandals, then
raised the tempo of her blows until the
spool-heels beat a sustained rat-tat on the
boards as though she were attempting to
crush some vile crawling thing that crept
invisible around her on the floor.

"Escolopendra, escolopendra!” 'The
words rose to a shriek that thinned out to
a squeaking wail as she leaped unsteadily
to her silk-cased feet and her wisp of frock
swirled round her slender graceful legs
when she bounded to the center of the bed
and gathered her skirts round her, for all
the world like a woman in deadly terror of
a mouse.

"Esto que es? — what is this?” Costello
asked as he stepped forward. “What talk
is this of una escolopendra-^3. centipede —
chiquita?”

"Ohe, Caballero,” the girl cried tremu-
lously, "have pity on poor Constancia and

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

save her from the centipedes. They are
all about, scores of them, hundreds, thou-
sands! Help, oh, help me, I implore you!”
She held her little hands beseechingly to
him, and her voice rose to a thin and rasp-
ing scream as she repeated the dread
word, "escolo pendra — escolo pendra!”

“Whist, mavourneen, if ’tis centipedes
as scares ye, ye can set yerself aisy. Sure,
it’s Jerry Costello as won’t let one of ’em
come near ye.”

Reaching up, he gathered her into his
arms as if she were a child. “Come on,
sors,” he suggested, “let’s git goin’. 'This
pore gur-rl’s real enough, ’spite of all th’
gallopin’ corpses that ye’ve seen around
here.”

De Grandin in the lead, we hastened
down the hall, and were almost at the
stairs when he halted us with upraised
hand. "A silence;” he commanded,
”ecout.ez!”

Very faintly it came to us, more a whim-
per than a moan; low, frightened, weak,
" Morbleu,” de Grandin exclaimed as he
turned the handle, kicked the door, and
disappeared into the bedroom like a div-
ing duck.

I followed, and Costello, with the girl
still in his arms, came after me. In a
wicker chair beside the chamber’s window
sat a young man, the mad girl’s brother,
judging by their strong resemblance to
each other, gently rocking to and fro and
moaning softly to himself. He was dressed
in dinner clothes, but they were woefully
disheveled.

His collar had been tom half from
his shirt; his tie, unknotted, hung limply
round his neck; the bosom of his shirt
had been wrenched from its studs and
bellied out from his chest like the sail of a
full-rigged ship standing before the wind.

“Howly Moses!” Costello tilted his straw
hat down on his nose, then pushed it back
upon his head. “Another of ’em?”

“Gregorio, hermano mio!” the girl Cos-

tello carried cried, "Gregorio — las escolo-
pendras "

But the young man paid no heed. He
bent forward in his chair, eyes riveted upon
his shoe-tips, and hummed a sort of tune-
less song to himself, pausing now and then
to utter a low moan, then smile foolishly,
like a man fuddled with liquor.

“Hey, Clancy,” Costello hurried to the
stairhead and called down, “come up here
on th’ run; we got a couple o’ nuts!”

The burly uniformed patrolman came
up the stairs three at a time, joined us in
the bedroom and drew the drooling youth
up from his chair. "Up ye come, young
felly me lad,” he ordered. “Come on out
o’ this, an’ mind ye don’t make anny
fuss,”

The boy was docile enough. Tottering
and staggering as though three-quarters
drunk, but otherwise quite tractable, he
went with Clancy down the stairs and made
no effort at resistance as they thrust him
into the police car.

Costello placed the girl in the back seat
beside her brother and turned uncertainly
to de Grandin. “Well, sor, now v.'e got
’em, what’re we goin’ to do wid ’em, I
dunno?” he asked.

“Do with them?” the little Frenchman
echoed acidly. “How should I know that?
What does one usually do with lunatics?
Take them riding in the park, take them to
dinner and the theatre, buy them lollypops
and ice cream — if all else fails, you might
convey them to the City Hospital. Me, I
go to research that never-quite-sufiiciently-
to-bc-anathematized house. I tell you that
I saw three corpses there, as dead as mut-
ton and as real as taxes. I shall not rest
till I have found them. Can they play
hide-and-seek with me? Shall three cadav-
ers make the monkey out of me? I tell
you no!”

"O. K., sor. I’ll go wid ye,” agreed
Costello, but to me he whispered, “Stay
wid ’im. Doctor Trowbridge, sor. I’m

WEIRD TALES

feared th* heat has touched ’im in th’
head.”

ITH the little Frenchman In the lead
we marched into the hall again and,
following the line of our first search,
paused before the screen that masked the
entrance to the service-pantry.

"See, look, observe,” he ordered as he
found the light switch and snapped the cur-
rent on. "I tell you that a woman’s body
lay right here, and — a-ah?’’ He dropped
upon his knees and pointed to a globular
black button on the polished hardwood
floor.

"U’m?” Costello grunted noncommit-
tally, bending forward to inspect the glob-
ule. “What is it, sor, a bit o’ jet?”

"Jet?” de Grandin echoed in disgust.
"Grand Dieu des pores, where are yoiu
eyes? Touch it!”

The sergeant put a tentative forefinger
on the gleaming orb, then drew back sud-
denly, his heat-flushed face a thought
paler. Where his finger had pressed it the
button had gone flat, lost its rotundity
and become a tiny pool of viscous liquid.
What he had mistaken for a solid sub-
stance was a great drop of partly congealed
blood.

“Bedad!” he wiped his finger on his
trousers, then scrubbed it with his hand-
kerchief. “What WU2 it, sor? It looks
like ”

"Predsement. It is,” the Frenchman
told him in a level, toneless voice. "That
is exactly what it is, my friend. The heart’s
blood from the poor dead woman whom
neither I nor good Friend Trowbridge saw
here before we called you.”

"Well, I’ll be ” Costello began,

and:

“One can almost find it in his heart to
hope you will,” cut in de Grandin. “You
have made me the insult, you have In-
timated that I did not know a corpse when
I beheld one, that I had hallucinations

in the head — ah bah, at times you do annoy
me past endurance!”

Grinning half maliciously, half de-
risively, he straightened from his knees
and nodded toward the stairs.

“Let us go up and see what else it was
Friend Trowbridge and I imagined when
we first came to this house of the three
corpses,” he ordered.

We climbed the winding stairs, every
sense alert for token of the imseen mur-
derers or their victims, and walked dowm
to the room where we had found the mad
girl raving of the centipedes.

“Now,” de Grandin cast a quick, stock-
taking glance around the chamber, "one
wonders why she babbled of 'las escolo-
pendras’ Even the insane do not harp
upon one string without some provocation.
It might have been that — stand back, my
friends; beware!”

We stared at him in open-mouthed
amazement, wondering if the room’s In-
fluence had affected him, but he paid us
no more heed than if we had been bits of
lifeless furniture. Slowly, stepping softly
on his toes, silent-footed as a cat that stalks
a mouse, he was creeping toward the
chintz-draped bedstead in the center of the
room. And as he advanced noiselessly I
heard a faint, queer, clattering sound, as
tliough some mechanical toy, almost run
down, were scratching on the bare, bright
polished floor beyond the shadow of the
bed.

Chin thrust forward, lips drav/n back
in a half snarl, mustache aquiver, the little
Frencliman advanced some three feet or so,
then quickly slipped the rapier blade from
his sword-stick and stood poised, one foot
forward, one drawn back, knees slightly
bent, his bright blade slanting down in
the beam of the electric light.

"Sa-ha!" He stabbed swiftly at the shad-
ows and whipped his blade back. As he
held the steel aloft for our inspection we
saw a thing that writhed and twisted on Its

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

point, an unclean thing six inches or so
long; a many- jointed, horn-armored bit of
obscenity which doubled convulsively into
a sharp horseshoe-curv’e, then bent itself
into a U, and waved a score or more of
crooked, claw-armed legs in pain and fury
as it writhed.

"Observe her very carefully,” he or-
dered. "Medusa on a hundred legs, 'la
escolopendra! I have seen her kind in
Africa and Asia and South America, but
never of this size. One does not wonder
that the poor young mademoiselle was
frightened into idiocy by the knowledge
that this lurked among the shadows of
the room. It is a lucky thing I heard her
clawing on the floor a moment since and
recognized her footsteps; had she gotten
up a trouser-leg and sunk her venomed
mandibles in one of us — tiens, that one
' would soon have found himself immersed
in flowers, but unable to enjoy their scent.
Yes, certainly.”

"Ye said a mouthful there, sor,” Cos-
tello agreed. "I’ve seen ’em in th’ Filly-
pines — ’twas there I learnt th’ Spanish
lingo so’s I understood th’ pore gur-rl’s
ravin’s — an’ no one needs to tell me about
’em. Shtep careful, sors; perhaps there’s
more of ’em about. They hate th’ light
like Satan hates th’ Mass, an’ our pants
would make a fine place for their hidin’.
It’s glad I am ye seen th’ poison little divil
first. Doctor de Grandin, sor.”

«^ALLING all cars; attention all cars,”

^ a voice was droning through the
police car’s radio as we left the house. "Be
on the lookout for a funeral car — a lim-
ousine hearse — license number F373-471.
Reported stolen from in front of 723 West-
morland Street. License number F373-471.
That is all.”

"Ah-ha,” de Grandin exclaimed. "Ah-
ha-ha?"

“What is it, sor?” Costello asked.

*"1110 joke has been on me, but now I

think that we shall turn the laugh on them.
One sees it all. But of course!”

"What ” I began, but he motioned

me to silence.

"The hearse which almost ran me down,
whence did it come. Friend Trowbridge?”

"Down this street; it almost clipped you
as we started to cross at ”

"Pricisement, exactement; quite so. You
have very right, my friend. And the ad-
dress whence the stolen car was pilfered,
where is it, mon Sergent?”

"Right round th’ corner, sor. ’Bout
halfway between this street an’ Myrtle
Avenoo ”

"Perfectly. It fits together like a pic-
ture-puzzle. Consider, if you please:
Three bodies lie here, a hearse is stolen just
around the corner; the bodies disappear,
so does the hearse. Find one and you shall
find the others, I damn think.”

^rpHANK you kindly, gentlemen; all

-L contributions to our stock of assorted
nuts are gratefully received.” Doctor
Donovan, in charge of H-3, the psycho-
pathic ward at City Hospital, grinned ami-
ably at us. "You say you found ’em bab-

WEIRD TALES

bling in a house in Tuscarora Avenue?
Pair o’ howlin’ swells, eh? Well, we’ll try
to make ’em comfortable, though they can’t
have caviar for breakfast, and we’re just
fresh out o’ pate de foie gras. Still — — ”

“Doctor Donovan” — an interne pushed
the superintendent’s office door four inches
open and nodded to our host.

"Yes, Ridgway?" asked Donovan.

> “It’s about the man and woman just
brought in. It looks to me as if they had
been drugged.”

"Eh? The devil! What makes you
think so?”

"Doctor Amlic took the girl and I ex-
amined the man. He seemed half drunk
to me, and as I was preparing the test for
alcoholism an urgent message came from
Doctor Amlie.

"I left my patient w'ith a male nurse and
hurried over to the women’s section. Am-
lie was all hot and bothered. 'What d’ye
think o’ this?’ she asked me as she pointed
to a spot of ecchymosis bigger than a silver
dollar on her patient’s arm. It was just
above the common tendon of the triceps,
and siurrounded the pit of a big needle-
wound. Looked to me as if she’d had a
hypo awkwardly administered. She
couldn’t ’a’ given it to herself.

"Amlie wanted to test for morphine or
cocain, but I talked her out of it. Cbcain’s
hardly ever injected except for surgery,
and morphine makes ’em lethargic. This
girl was almost hysterical, jabbering Span-
ish or Italian, I don’t know which, and
stopping every other moment to giggle.
Then she’d seem about to fall asleep, and
suddenly wake up and go through the
whole turn again.

"I’d just finished reading Smith’s For-
ensic Medicine in the East, and had a
hunch.”

"Uh-huh?” Donovan encouraged.

“Well, sir, I withdrew one-point-fifty-
four cc’s of blood from her arm, directly
in the ecchymosed area, and gave it the

Beam test, using ethyl chloride instead of
alcoholic potash ”

“Talk English, son; I’m rusty on my
toxicology,” Donovan broke in. "What’d
you find?”

“Galenical cannabis indica, sir.”

"U’m? Any objective symptoms?”

"Yes, sir. Her reflexes were practically
nil, the heart action was markedly accel-
erated and the pupils dilated. Just now
she seems about to drop off to sleep, but
there are periods of hysteria recurring at
gradually increasing intervals.”

"Uh-huh. How about your patient?”

“Doctor Amlie came over to the male
section with me and we put my man
through the same tests. Everything checked,
but his symptoms are more marked. I’d
say he had a heavier dose, but both of ’em
have been doped with cannabis indica in-
jected intravenously.”

"How long d’ye think this condition’ll
last?”

"According to the text books not much
longer than an ordinary dnmk. They
should sleep it off in eight to ten hours,
at most.”

"Pardon,” de Grandin interrupted, "but
is there not some way that we can hold
these persons incommunicado? In France
it would be easy, but here ”

"Sure, there is,” Costello broke in.
"You an’ Doctor Trowbridge say you seen
three corpses in that house, an’ ye believe
that they wuz murthered. These kids wuz
found there, an’ might know sumpin’ ’bout
it. We can hold ’em as material witnesses
any reasonable time.”

“Very good, take the necessary steps to
keep them in restraint, and when they are
recovered from their drugged sleep let me
see them.”

<‘QfAY, Trowbridge,” Doctor Donovan’s

^ voice came to me on the telephone
next morning, “who wants to break in to
see a nut?”

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

"Who wants to what?” I answered, mys-
tified.

"You heard me right, feller. There was
some monkey business down here last
night, and one of those kids you and de
Grandin and Costello brought here is
mixed up in it. Can you and de Grandin
come down here?”

Dawkins, the night chief orderly of the
psychopathic ward, was waiting for us in
the superintendent’s office when we
reached the City Hospital, and launched
upon his story without preface.

"I was sittin’ just inside the safety door
— the grating, you know — and it was just
ten minutes after one when the funny busi-
ness started,” he told us.

"How do you place the time with such
exactitude?” de Grandin asked.

Dawkins grinned. "I went on duty at
eleven, and wouldn’t be relieved till seven
in the morning. About one o’clock I be-
gan to get pretty sleepy, so I sent Hosmer
to the kitchen for a pot o’ coffee and some
sandwiches. It seemed to me he took a
little longer than he should, and I’d just
looked up at the electric clock on the wall
just opposite my chair when I heard a
funny-sounding noise.

"It wasn’t quite like anything I’d ever
heard before, for while it was a sort of
whistling, like a sudden wind, it was also
something like the humming of a monster
bee, perhaps an airplane.”

De Grandin tweaked his mustache ends.
"You say it combined a hum and whistle?”

"That’s just about the way to describe
it, sir.”

"Very good, and then?”

"Then I saw the shadow, sir. You
know, there’s a ceiling light in the main
corridor — the one connecting the ambu-
lance entrance with the emergency ward —
just around the corner from the hallway
leading to H-3. Anybody standing around
the corner of the junction of the two cor-
ridors, but between that light and the angle

made by our hallway branching off, casts a
shadow down our hall. Many a time I’ve
spotted nurses and orderlies standing to
talk there when they should have been
about their duties. Well, when I heard
this funny noise I got up, and as I did I
saw this shadow. It wasn’t any of the
hospital employees. It was someone with
a derby hat on, and it looked to me as if
he had a club or something in his hand. I
didn’t like his looks too much.”

"You were suspicious? Why?”

"Well, we haven’t had anything of the
kind happen for some years, but in the old
days when the gangs were running liquor,
two-three times gunmen broke into the hos-
pital and shot up fellers we had in here.
Once they rubbed out an orderly because he
tried to stop ’em.

“So I started down to the other end of
the ward. Dennis was on duty there, and
he’s a pretty good one to have with you in
a scrap. O’ course, we aren’t allowed to
carry weapons — not even billies — in H-3.
Too much chance of some lunatic’s get-
ting hold of ’em and going on a rampage.
But I wanted Dennis to take a gander at
this gay’s shadow, and if he thought what

WEIRD TALES

I did, we could call up the main office and
have someone with a gun come round and
grab him from behind while we went out
to tackle him in front. So I started down
to get Dennis.”

"Yes, and then?”

"Well, sir, just as I got abreast of 34,
the room they’d put Doctor Ridgway’s pa-
tient in, I heard a sound that seemed to
cut through the queer noise I’ve been tell-
ing you about, like someone filing a piece
of metal.

“The patient was asleep and I thought
he might be snoring — some of ’em make
mighty funny noises — but when I looked
through the peep-hole in the door I saw a
feller on the outside, cutting through the
window grating.

"You know how our windows are.
There’s a strong steel netting on the out-
side, then the glass, then another grating
on the inside. This feller was working
on the outside grating with a saw of some
sort, and had already cut a hole two inches
long.

“D’ye know what I think?”

“Nothing would delight us more than
hearing it, my friend.”

"Well, sir, I think that funny noise I
heard was made to cover up the noise the
saw made as it cut that grating.”

“Your theory does great credit to your
perspicacity. Did you see the one who
sought to cut the grating?”

"Not very good, sir. He seen me about
the same time that I spotted him, and
ducked down out o’ sight. Funny thing
about him, though. I’d say he was a for-
eigner. Anyhow, he was mighty dark and
had black hair and a large nose.”

Donovan took up the story: “Dawkins
turned in the alarm, and we rushed around
to see about it. Of course, we found no
one in the main corridor, but that’s not
strange. There’s no guard at the ambulance
entrance, and anyone can come or go that
way at will. If we hadn’t found the cut

screen we’d have thought he dreamed it.

"Now, what I want to know is this;
Who’d want to help those kids escape? As
I understand it, they’re being held as wit-
nesses to a murder ”

"Excusez-mot!" de Grandin cut in; then,
to Dawkins: “Will you take me to the
window this one tried to cut through, if
you please?”

They were back in less than three min-
utes, and a grim look set upon the little
Frenchman’s face as he opened his folded
handkerchief and spread it out on Dono-
van’s desk. "Regardez!” he directed.

Upon the linen lay some particles of
glass, evidently portions of a smashed test-
tube, and the crushed but clearly recogniz-
able body of a four-incli centipede.

^‘rpHERE is a black dog running through
my brain,” he complained as we sat
waiting in the study after dinner the next
evening. “This case puzzles me. Why
should it not be one thing or the other?
Why should it be a hybrid? Somewhere”
— ^he spread his hands as if to reach for
something — “just beyond my fingertips the
answer lies, but I cannot touch it.”

“What puzzles you particularly?” I
asked. “What they’ve done with the miss-
ing bodies?”

"Ah, non. That is comparatively simple.
When the police find the stolen hearse,
as they are sure to do in time, they will
find the bodies in it. It is the half-caste
nature of the case which causes me confu-
sion. Consider him, if you please.” He
spread his fingers out fanwise and checked
the items on them:

“We come on three dead corpses. There
is nothing strange in death. It has been a
scientific fact since Eve and Adam first
sinned. All indications are that they were
murdered. Murder, in and of itself, is no
novelty. It has been going on since Cain
slew Abel; but surrounding circumstances
are unusual. Oh, yes, very. The servant

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

and the woman had been left as they had
died, one in his chair, the other on the
floor; but the man is carried to the draw-
ing-room and laid out carefully. Is it that
the killers first arranged him, and were
about to do the same for their two other
victims when we were attracted by the
young girl’s scream, and interrupted them?
There is a thought there.

"Then about the young man and his sis-
ter. Both had been drugged with hashish
and left in their respective rooms to be
killed by poison centipedes. Why? one
wonders. Why were they not killed out
of hand, like the three others; why were
they drugged instead of being bound and
gagged when they were left as prey for
the vile myriapods?

"And why should they be Spaniards, as
they obviously are?”

Despite myself I grinned. "Why, for
the same reason that you’re French, and I’m
American,” I answered. '"There’s nothing
strange about a Spaniard being Spanish, is
there?”

"In this case, yes,” he countered. "If
they had been Orientals I could understand
some phases of the puzzle — the hashish
and the so vile piping heard about the
hospital when the attempt to drop the
centipede into the young man’s room was
made. But their being Spanish upsets all
my theories.

"Hashish is a drug peculiar to the East.
They eat it, smoke it; sometimes, though
not often, they inject it. Alors, we may
assiune that he who used it on these chil-
dren was an Eastern, n’est-ce-pas?

"As for the so peculiar music — the
'funny sound’ — which the good Dawkins
heard, I know her. She is a very high,
shrill sound produced by blowing on a
specially prepared reed, and has a tendency
to shock the sensory-motor nerves to a
paralysis; something like the shrieking of
the Chinese screaming boys, whose high,
thin, piercing wail so disorganizes the hear-

er’s nervous system that his marksmanship
is impaired and often he is rendered all but
helpless in a fight. Our agents in the
Lebanon mountains report this music has
been used by — mon Dieu, I am the monu-
mental stupid-head! Why did I not con-
sider it before?”

"What in the world ” I began, but

before I had a chance to frame my ques-
tion Nora McGinnis announced from the
study entrance:

"Sergeant Costello an’ a young lady an’
man, sors, if yez plaze.”

*^^OOD evenin’, gentlemen,” the big

'J' detective greeted. "I brought ’em,
as ye asked. These are Senorita and Senor
Gutierrez y del Gado de Jerez.”

Though the youngsters had been con-
fined in the hospital it was evident that
access to their wardrobe had not been de-
nied them, and their appearance was far
diflFerent from that of the babbling imbe-
ciles we’d found in Tuscarora Avenue. The
lad was positively seal-sleek; if anything,
a thought too perfect in his grooming. He
wore more jewelry than good taste required
and smelled unnecessarily of lilac perfume.

As for Constancia, only the knowledge
that she’d been in custody continuously,
and so could not have sent a substitute,
enabled me to recognize the wild-haired,
panic-ridden girl of the previous night in
the self-contained and assured young
woman who occupied the chair opposite
me. I’d forgotten how intensely black her
hair was when we’d rescued her. Now it
seemed even blacker. Drawn severely back
in a French roll and parted low on the
left side, it glinted like a grackle’s throat
in the lamplight. Dressed with pomade,
two curls like inverted question marks were
plastered close against her cheeks where
a man’s sideburns would be, and were ren-
dered more noticeable by the long pendants
of green jade that hung nearly to her
creamy shoulders from her ear-lobes. Her

WEIRD TALES

backless, strapless evening gown of shim-
mering black satin fitted almost as tightly
as a stocking, covering to some extent but
by no means concealing any of her nar-
row, lissome figure. Her ear-pendants and
the emerald clasps of her stilt-heeled san-
dals were her only jewelry and the only
spots of color in her costume. The vivid
carmine of her painted lips glowed like a
red rose fallen in the snow, for her face,
throat, shoulders and tapering arms and
hands were dead-white in their pallor as
the petals of a gardenia. Despite her im-
maturity of figure and youthfulness of face
— she seemed much younger than on the
night we’d first seen her — there was a
strange allure about her, and I caught my-
self comparing her to Carmen in a Paris
frock or Francesca da Rimini with Rue de
la Paix accessories.

Airkles crossed demurely, hands folded
in her lap, she cast a glance from bur-
nished-onyx eyes on Jules de Grandin.
"Sehor,” she murmured in a throaty rich
contralto, very different from her reedy
ravings of the other night, “they tell me
that our parents are — have been killed. Is
it truly so?” Her English was without ac-
cent, save for a shortening of the i’s and a
slight rolling of the f’s.

“Alas, I fear that it is true, senorita,” de
Grandin answered. “Can you tell me any
reason anyone should wish them harm?”

Her sultry eyes came up to his beneath
their curling fringe of long black lashes,
and if it had been possible. I’d have said
their darkness deepened. "I cannot tell you
who wished evil to them,” she replied,
“but I know they lived in fear of someone
or some thing. I am seventeen years old,
and never in my life have I lived long
enough in any place to know it well or call
it home or make a lasting friendship. Al-
ways we have been upon the move, like
gipsies or an army. London, Paris, the
Riviera, Zurich, Rome, California, New
York — ^we have flown from one to an-

other like birds piusued by hawks that
will not let them rest in any tree. Never
have we owned a home — no, not so much
as the beds we slept on. I grew up in
villas rented ready furnished, in pensions
and hotels. We were like the orchid that
draws sustenance from the air and never
sinlis its roots into the soil beneath it. The
nearest to a home I ever had was the three
years that I was at convent school near
Cologne. I think if they had let me stay
there I should have found that I had the
vocation, but” — her narrow naked shoul-
ders came up in a shrug — “it was like the
rest. No sooner had I learned to love it
— found peace and contentment there —
than they took me away.”

“One sympathizes with you, senorita.
You have no idea who or what it was your
parents fled?”

“No, Caballero. I only know they feared
it greatly. We would come to rest in some
new place, perhaps a little pension in Paris
or Berlin, perhaps a furnished cottage in
some English village, or a hotel in Switz-
erland, when one day Mama or the 'Padre
would come in with fear upon his face,
looking backward as he walked, as though
an asesino dogged his steps, and, 'They are
here,’ or 'I have seen them,’ one would tell
the other. Then in hot haste we packed
our clothing and effects — always we lived
with porte-manteux in readiness — and off
we rushed in secrecy, like criminals fleeing
from the law.

“But I do not think the Padre ever was
a criminal, for everywhere we went he was
most friendly with the police. Always
when we came to live in some new place
the cuartel general de policta — the police
headquarters — ^was one of the first places
which he visited. Is that the way a fugi-
tive from justice acts?”

'IThat’s right, sor,” Costello confirmed.
“Colonel Gutierrez came to headquarters
when he first moved here nine months ago,
an’ asked ’em to give orders to th’ man on

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

his bate to give special attention to his
house. Told ’em he’d been burglarized
three times in his last residence, an’ his
wife wuz on th’ verge of a breakdown.”

T’VE GRANDIN nodded as he turned
-L' back to the girl. *'The sergeant called
your father Colonel Gutierrez, senorita. Do
you know what army he served in?”

"No, senof, he had quit the military
service before I was born. I never heard
him mention it, nor did I ever see a pic-
ture of him in his uniform.”

The Frenchman nodded understand-
ingly. Apparently this conversation, so
meaningless to me, confirmed some theory
he had formed. "What of the night we
found you?” he asked. “Precisely what oc-
curred, senorita?”

Young Gutierrez leaped up and ad-
vanced a step toward Jules de Grandin.
"Senof,” he exclaimed, as he clasped his
slender, ring-laden hands in a perfect ec-
stasy of entreaty, "we — my sister and I —
are in the dreadful trouble. These scoun-
drels have put the slight upon us. They
have slain our parents. Blood calls for
blood. It is the rifa, the contienda — the
blood-feud — we have with them. We call
on you to help us get revenge!”

"Gregorio! Hermanito mio!" the girl
called softly as she rose and laid a hand
upon her brother’s arm. "Silencio, corazo-
nito pequeno!” To us she added rapidly in
English:

“Forgive him, senores. He lives in a
small world of his own. He is, alas, un
necio duke — one of God’s little ones.”

‘There seemed magic in her touch, for
the young man quieted immediately, and
sat silently with her hand clasped in his
as she responded to de Grandin’s query.

"We had finished dinner, and Gregorio
and I had been excused while Mama and
the Vadre had their coffee and liqueur. He
— my brother — and I were going to the
cinema and were changing from our din-

ner clothes when I heard a sudden cry
downstairs. It was my mother’s voice,
pitched high and thin, as if she suffered or
were very frightened.”

"A-a-ah?” de Grandin cut in on a rising
note. "And then, if you please?”

"I heard no more, but as I ran to see if
I could be of help a hand was laid upon
my doorknob and two men rushed into
my room. One held a cane or stick of some
sort in his hand and as I shrank back from
him he thrust it at me. There must have
been a pin or steel point on it, for it
pierced my arm and hurt me dreadfully,
but only for a moment.”

“A moment, senorita? How do you
mean?”

She looked at him and managed a wan
smile. "There was the oddest feeling
spreading through me — like a sudden
deathly fatigue, or, perhaps, a sort of
numbness. I still stood upon my feet, but
I had no idea how I kept on them. I
seemed to have grown to a giant’s height,
the floor seemed far away and unreal, as
the earth does when you look at it from
the top of a high tower; and I knew that
in a moment I should fall upon my face,
but even as I realized it I knew that I’d
not feel it. I felt as if I never should feel
anything again.

"Then I was on the floor, with the cool
boards pressing on my cheek. I had fallen,
I knew, but I had not felt the impact. One
moment I was standing; the next I lay upon
the floor, with no recollection how I got
there.

"One of the men had a small cage of
woven willow, something like the little
straw cages that the Japanese keep crickets
in, and suddenly he upset it and shook it.
Something — several things — came tum-
bling, squirming, out of it, and I recog-
nized them as great centipedes — the deadly
poisonous escolopendras whose bite is ter-
rible as that of a tarantula. Then they
laughed at me and left.

WEIRD TALES

"The centipedes were writlring toward
the corners of the room as I tried to rise
and run, but I could not. The numb, half-
paralyzed sensation was gone, but in its
stead I seemed to suffer from a sudden
overpowering dizziness. And my eyes were
playing tricks on me. The lamplight
seemed to glow and glitter with prismatic
colors, and the edges of the room began
to curl in on me, like the petals of a fold-
ing flower. I was in deadly terror of the
centipedes, but somehow it seemed I was
too tired to move.

"Then one of them came running at me
from the shadow of the bed. Its eyes looked
bigger than the headlights of a motor car
and seemed to glow with fire-red flashes.
Somehow I managed to sit up and tear the
sandals off my feet and beat the floor with
them. I couldn’t reach to strike the centi-
pede, for if I leaned this way or that I
knew that I would topple over, and then
my face would be down on the floor where
it was! But when I jxiunded on the floor
with my shoes it seemed to be afraid and
ran back to the shadows.

"I have no idea how long I sat there and
drummed upon the floor, but presently I
heard a woman scream and scream, as
though she’d never stop. After a little
while I realized it was I who screamed,
but I was powerless to stop it. It might
have been five minutes or an hour that I
sat and screamed and drummed on the
floor witli my shoes; I could not say. But
presently my door was opened and you
gentlemen came in. To God and you I
owe my life, seiiores." 'The smile with
which she swept us w'as positively ravish-
ing.

"Eh bien, senorita, we are indebted to
you for a very lucid exposition of that so
trying night’s occurrences,” de Grandin
said. "We need not trouble to interrogate
your brother. From all that we have seen
we may assume that his experiences were
substantially the same as yours.

"You have heard about the attempt on
his life at the hospital?”

"But yes,” she answered tremulously.
"Is there no safety for us anywhere? What
have we done to anyone? Why should
anybody wish to harm poor us?”

"Please understand me, senorita,” he re-
turned. "It is for your own safety, not
because we think of you as criminals, that
we have arranged to lodge you in the city
prison. Even in the hospital you are not
safe, but in the prison with its fast-locked
doors and many guards your safety is as-
sured. As for who it was that orphaned
you and then administered a drug and
tried to kill you with the poison centipedes,
I do not know, but I shall find out, never
fear. I am Jules de Grandin, and Jules de
Grandin is a very clever fellow.”

^^TTE th’ way, sor,” Costello whispered
as he prepared to escort the young
people to the safety of the prison, "they’ve
found th’ missin’ hearse. It wuz in th’
bay, where it’d been run off Whitman’s
Dock. 'The plates wuz missin’, but Joe
Valenti, th’ %etalian undertaker, identi-
fied it.”

"Ah, that is good. The bodies were in
it, of course?"

"No, sor, they weren’t. 'Th’ Harbor
Squad’s draggin’ th’ bay on th’ off chance
they mighta dropped out, but I don’t think
they’ll find ’em. 'Th’ hearse doors wuz
all shut v/hen it wuz fished up, an’ hardly
any w'ater had seeped in. ’Tain’t likely
th’ bodies fell out of it.”

T he sergeant came to dinner three
nights later, and did full justice to the
"ragout trlandais” which Nora had pre-
pared for his especial benefit. Not until
the meal was over and we had adjourned
to the study would de Grandin speak
about the case; then, as he took his stance
before the empty fireplace: "My friends,”
he announced as he drew a sheaf of papers

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

from his pocket, “I damn think I have the
answer to our puzzle. You will remember
Sehorita Gutierrez knew her father had re-
signed his commission before her birth^
and had never spoken of his military serv-
ice in her hearing. Perhaps you wondered
at it. We old soldiers are not wont to
minimize the tales of our adventures. Yet
there was good reason for his reticence.

"I have his record here. I have cabled
to the Surete and the Ministere de la
Guerre, and they replied at length by air
mail via South America.

"Constantino Cristobal Jose Gutierrez y
del Gado de Jerez was, we knew, a Span-
iard; we did not know he quit his country
in extraordinary haste with the guardia
civil upon his heels. When the Barcelona
riots broke out in 1909 he was a young
subaltern fresh from military school at To-
ledo, where he had been educated in the
traditions of Pizarro and Cortez. You re-
call what happened after that uprising?
How Francisco Ferrer the great educator
was tried by a court-martial? liens, when
a military court tries a soldier it metes out
substantial justice. When it tries a civilian
one may wager safely that it was convoked
to find him guilty of all charges.

"Our young sous-Ueutenant was among
the prosecution’s witnesses and when the
trial was completed the sentence sent the
defendants to the firing-party.

"The whole world shuddered at the out-
rage, and the pressure of mankind’s opin-
ion was so great that three years later an-
other military court revoked the first one’s
findings, and branded testimony given
against Ferrer and his co-defendants as
perjury.

"Gutierrez, now a captain, took offense
at this supposed reflection on his veracity,
challenged one of the court to a duel and
killed him at the first pass. His opponent
was a major, partly crippled by a wound
be had received in Cuba, very wealthy and
of an influential family. Captain Gutierrez

killed his own career in the Spanish army
when he killed his adversary, and had to
flee in greatest haste to avoid arrest.

"Eh bien, he landed where so many dis-
appointed soldiers land, in the Foreign Le-
gion. He had the blood of the Conquista-
dores in him, that one. Embittered, bold
and reckless, he was the legionnaire par ex-
cellence. By the end of the Great War he
was a colonel.

"Then, as now and always, the Riffs and
Druses were in revolt, actual or prospec-
tive, and Colonel Gutierrez when assigned
to the Intelligence proved successful in ob-
taining military information from the cap-
tured rebels. 'The Spaniard has a flair for
torture, my friends. Cruelty is as native to
him as delicacy is to a Frenchman. Some
few of Colonel Gutierrez’ prisoners es-
caped, some he released when they had
served their turn. All went back home
crippled and deformed, and his popularity
with the hillmen waned in inverse ratio
to the number of their tribesmen he dis-
figured.

"Tenez, at length an elderly Druse gen-
tleman named Abn-el-Kader fell into our
brave colonel’s none too gentle hands, and
with him was captured his daughter Jaha-
nara, called lalla aziza, the beautiful lady.
She was indeed a lovely creature, just
turned thirteen, which in the East meant
budding into womanhood, with copper-red
hair rolling low upon her snowy fore-
head and passionate, dreamy, wistful eyes
into which a man looked once, then never
cared to look away again.

"Eh bien, he was stubborn, that one. He
was not at all talkative. Rather than dis-
close his tribesmen’s plans he chose to die,
which he did in circumstances of elaborate
discomfort, and Jahanara was not only a
prisoner, but an orphan as well.

"Corbleu, my friends, romance is much
like history in that the more it changes
the more it is the same wherever it is
found. Race, religion and the custom of

WEIRD TALES

blood-feud as old as the Lebanon Hills
stood between them, but the captor had
become the captive, and Monsieur le Col-
onel was eyebrow-deep in love with Lalla
Aziza Johanara. One wonders if she loved
or hated him the more when they first
kissed, whether she would not rather have
drunk his heart’s blood than his eager,
panting breath as he took her in his arms.
Tiens, love conquers all, as Ovid says. In
a little while she wed the man at whose
command her father died in torment.

"But though the prince had wed his Cin-
derella it was not to be his lot to live in
peaceful happiness with her. Oh, no!
The Druses are a prideful, stiff-necked
people. Their ancient tribal law forbids
their women marrying outside their race.
They have a proverb, 'No Druse girl mates
with any but a Druse, and if she does, her
father and her brothers track her down and
slit her heart, though she be lying in the
Sultan’s arms.’ The Druse maids under-
stand this perfectly. Before they come of
marriageable age they swear an oath to
keep the ancient tribal law on pain of
death — death by the knife of vengeance
for themselves, and if they have borne hy-
brid children — 'may they be the prey of
centipedes.’

"You apprehend, my friends? Cannot
you understand why Colonel Gutierrez quit
the Legion and with his Druse bride, and
later with his half-blood children, lived a
hunted, fugitive existence, seeing a threat
in each strange face, starting frightfully
at every vagrant shadow, never feeling safe
in any one place very long? Yes, cer-
tainly.

"Ordinarily only the unfaithful Druse
woman and her children are the objects of
the tribal Nemesis, but the hillmen had a
long score to settle with the colonel. The
memory of the missing hands and feet, the
burnt-out eyes, the slit and speechless-bab-
bling tongues of their blood brethren fes-
tered like a canker-sore in their minds.

They owed him a long-standing debt of
vengeance. Tiens, it seems they paid it.”

<<'OEGARD him, if you please,” he or-
dered me at breakfast two days
later, handing me a copy of the morning
]ournal.

"Gutierrez Children Return Home”

the headline read, and under it a short
item:

"Senorita Constancia Gutierrez and her
brodier Gregorio, who have been undergoing
treatment at City Hospital for the past few
days, are now fully recovered and have re-
turned to their residence, 1502 Tuscarora
Avenue, where they will hereafter be at home
to their many friends.”

"Is it not magnificent?” he asked.

"I don’t see anything magnificent about
it,” I returned. "It doesn’t even seem like
good make-up to me. How did they ever
come to stick an unimportant little item
like that on the first page instead of burying
it in the Society column? Who cares
whether Constancia and Gregorio have
gone home or not?”

“You and I do, by example,” he an-
swered with a grin. "The good Costello
does, but, most important of us all, several
gentlemen from the Djebel Druse are
greatly interested in their movements. As
long as they were lodged in City Prison
they were safe. Now that they are home
again ”

"Good heavens, d’ye mean that you’re
deliberately exposing them to ”

"Mass out, my friend. We set the trap,
we wait, we spring, parbleu! One might
recast the old jingle to read;

" 'Will you walk into my parlor?’

Said de Grandin to the Druses.”

T he cry came quavering down the hall,
shrill, sharp, fright-freighted.

For half an hour we had waited in the

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

darkened room adjoining that in which
Constancia and her brother were, ears
strained to catch the slightest sound which
might betray arrival of the Druses. Down-
stairs, patrolmen waited in the drawing-
room and kitchen, two others lurked in am-
bush in the back yard. Our baited trap
seemed escape-proof, yet . . .

The scream came once again, then
stopped abruptly, like a radio-transmission
when the dial is curtly turned.

"Morbleu, they have won through!” de
Grandin cried as he blew his police whistle
and we tumbled through the door and
dashed into Constancia’s room.

From downstairs came the police guard,
clattering and pounding on the steps. The
bedroom fairly boiled with armed men,
but nowhere was there any sign of the
youngsters.

”No one came through th’ front way,”
a policeman told Costello, and:

"Same wid th’ kitchen,” supplemented
another. "A mouse couldn’t ’a’ got past
us — - — ”

"The screen is out,” de Grandin inter-
rupted, "and a drain pipe runs within a
foot of the window. A moderately agile
climber might have ”

"Hey, .jouse down there!” Costello
bawled to the patrolmen in the back yard,
"seen anybody.^”

There was no answer. "Ah bah, we
waste the time,” de Grandin snapped. “It
is probable they knifed the guards as they
did the servant when they killed the col-
onel and his lady. After them!”

"They can’t ’a’ took ’em very far,” Cos-
tello panted as we rushed downstairs.
"'Th’ alley’s too narrow for a car; they’ll
have to carry ’em.”

The two patrolmen lay Inert as corpses
on the lawn, but a hurried glance assured
us they were merely stunned, and we left
them and rushed out into the alley.

Where the luminance of a street lamp
gleamed dully from the alley-head at the

cross street we saw a group of hurrying
figures, and de Grandin raised his pistol.
"Canaille!” he rasped, and fired. One of
the fugitives fell staggering, but the others
hurried on, and as they neared the light
we saw they struggled with two shrouded
figures.

They had perhaps two hundred feet
start of us, and de Grandin did not dare to
fire again for fear of injuring the captives.
Though we raced at top speed they reached
the cross street before we could close the
gap sufficiently to fire with safety, and as
we emerged from the alley we saw them
scrambling into a car waiting at the curb
with engine running. Next instant they
roared past us and we caught a glimpse
of Constancia’s blanched face as she peered
through the tonneau window.

Half a dozen blasts on Costello’s whistle
brought two squad cars rushing round the
comer, and the chase was on.

Perhaps a quarter-mile away, but losing
distance with each revolution of the
wheels, our quarry sped. De Grandin hung
upon our mnning-board, his pistol raised,
waiting opportunity to send a telling shot
into the fleeing car.

Eight, ten, a dozen blocks we raced at
breakneck speed, our sirens cleaving
through the sultry darkness like lightning-
lances. We were less than half a block
behind them when they swerved sharply
to the right and darted down a cross street.
When we reached the corner they had dis-
appeared.

Like hounds at fault we looked about us.
To the left a creek cut through the town,
and most streets ended at it, only one in
each five being bridged. The two cros'
streets to the right were torn up for r<^
paving; they could not have fled that way,
and no glimmering tail light showed in
the street in which we stood.

Most of the houses in the block were
deserted, and any of them might afford a
refuge for the Druses and their prisoners.

WEIRD TALES

but nowhere, look sharply as we would,
could we espy a sign of their old motor.
From house to darkened house we went,
looking in the back yards for some trace
of the car. At last:

"My friends, come quickly!” called de
Grandin. He was standing at the creek
bank, pointing to the shallow muddy
water. Nose-foremost in the stream was a
decrepit motor, its tail light still aglow.
"Tiens, it seems to be a liabit with them,
throwing their equipage into the water,”
he remarked; then: "En avant, tries en-
jants. A la maison!

"No, be of tire quietness,” he warned
as Costello put his shoulder to the door.
"Let me do it.” From his pocket he pro-
duced a thin strip of metal, worked at the
lock for a moment; then, "Entrez!” he in-
vited as the lock snapped back with a soft
dick.

Dov/n the narrow, dust-strewn hall we
crept, tried several doors without result,
then began to mount the stairway, tread-
ing on the extreme outer edges of the
boards to avoid betraying creaks.

An oblong of slate-gray against the
darkness told us where a window opened
from the upper hall, and toward it we
stole silently, halting as de Grandin gave
a low hiss. Thin as a honed razor-blade,
but not to be mistaken in the gloom, a
narrow line of faint light trickled from be-
neath a tight-closed door.

"You arc ready, mon Sergent?”

"Aye, sor.”

Like twin battering-rams they launched
tliemsclves against the door. Its flimsy
panels splintered as if they were match-
wood, and in the subdued light of a single
electric bulb pendant from the ceiling we
saw tliree men facing two figures lashed
to chairs.

Constancia Gutierrez sat facing us, and
beside her was her brother. Both were
gagged with wide strips of adhesive tape
across their lips; both had tlieir shoes and

stockings stripped away; more wide bands
of adhesive tape bound their feet and
ankles to the chair legs in such manner
that they could not lift them from the
floor.

One of the men was emptying a small
cage of woven wickerwork as we crashed
in, and as its little door flapped open we
saw three writhing centipedes come tum-
bling out and strike the dusty floor beside
the girl’s bare feet.

A moan of terror — a scream of an-
guished horror muted by the gag across
her lips — came from Constancia as the
poisonous insects struck the floor; then her
head fell forward as her senses failed.

At the crashing of the door the three
men wheeled upon us, and there was some-
thing almost military in the singleness of
their gesture as they reached beneath their
unkempt jackets, ripped out eighteen-inch
knives and rushed at us. "Ya Rabaoiu ! —
O foreigners!” one cried, but his words
were drowned out by the thunderous roar
of pistols.

De Grandin’s little automatic seemed to
blaze a single stream of fire, Costello’s big
revolver bellowed like a field gun. It was
as if the three men walked into a wall.
Like troops obeying a command they
halted, wavered, stumbled. One hiccupped,
gasped and slumped down slowly, bening
at the knees. Another spun half around
and fell full length upon his face. The
third stood goggling at us, empty-eyed
and open-mouthed, then stepped back
shufflingly, seemed to trip on nothing and
fell flat on his back.

"Excellent, superb, magnificent!” de
Grandin commented. "We be marksmen,
thou and I, mon Sergent.’’ With a leap he
cleared the foremost body, bounded up into
the air and came down heavily, flat-footed.
His small feet banged on the bare floor
like the metaled shoes of a tap-dancer as
he ground the centipedes to unclean pulp
beneath his heels.

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE CORPSES

*^TT£RE’S sumpin I can’t figure, sor,”
admitted Costello as we proceeded
with our search of the house.

A surprising miscellany had turned up
in the half-hour we’d been working since
we sent Constancia and Gregorio under
escort to the hospital. In the room ad-
joining we had found the Druses’ living-
quarters, an evil-smelling, unkempt room
with four bed-rolls, some cook-pots and
valises filled with none too clean cloth-
ing. In the basement was a table like a
carpenter’s work bench, two pressure tanks,
an airpump, several airbrushes of varying
sizes, and, plugged into an electric outlet,
a large fan. The table and the floor were
mottled with dried spots of what looked
like shellac, some white stuff resembling
plaster of Paris, and here and there dull-
glov/ing patches like metallic paint.

Now Costello handed us a filled-in
printed form. It was a deed entitling
Jose Gutierrez to full rights of burial in a
six-grave plot in St. Rose’s Cemetery —
"Lot No. 3, Range 37, Section M.’’

"St. Rose’s is a Cath’lic cemetery,” Cos-
tello reminded us; “what th’ divil were
these haythens doin’ wid a deed from it?”

De Grandin scarcely seemed to hear. His
little eyes seemed all pupil, like those of a
startled cat; his small blond mustache was
fairly twitching with excitement. "The
fan, the plaster, the blow-guns,” he mur-
mured. “One blows the paint and plaster
with the airbrush, one dries it quickly with
the fan, one then — mah oui, it is entirely
possible. Come, my friends, let us hasten
with all speed to the cemetery of the sainted
Rose. I think our trail ends there!”

B y no stretch of the imagination could
the cemetery superintendent’s greet-
ing have been called cordial when, in re-
sponse to Costello’s thunderous banging
on his door, he finally let us into his
small, cluttered office.

"Sure, I sold a plot to Josie Gooteez,”

he admitted. "He an’ his three brothers
come to get it last Thursday. They wuz
Mexicans or sumpin, I think. Anyhow,
they didn’t speak good English.”

"And they made immediate inter-
ments?” asked de Grandin.

"Naw, they ain’t buried nobody yet. But
they stuck up a couple o’ moniments.
Damndest-lookin’ things yuh ever seen,
too. They come here yesterday wid two
statoos in a truck, an’ set ’em up their-
selves — ’fore th’ cement bases wuz quite
finished dryin’.”

"Indeed? And of what were these so
weird statues, if you please?”

"Huh, your guess is good as mine about
that. They looked as if they had been
meant to represent a man an’ woman, but
they ain’t so hot. Seemed to me as if
they’d molded ’em in cement, then painted
’em with bronze paint, like a radiator. We
hadn’t ought to let such things be put up
here, but that plot’s in th’ cheapest sec-
tion, an’ almost anything goes there.
That’s where th’ haythens and such-like
bury.”

rriHE superintendent’s criticism of the
effigies was entirely justified by all ar-
tistic canons. Standing on twin concrete
bases, some eight feet apart, two statues
faced each other. One was of a woman,
one a man, and both were execrably exe-
cuted.

The woman’s costume seemed to be
some sort of evening gown, but its folds
were obscured by the clumsiness with which
they had been reproduced. Of her features
little could be discerned; the face had been
so crudely shaped as to resemble a half-
chiseled stone portrait. Only humps and
hollows in appropriate places told where
eyes and nose and mouth were.

'The male figure was as uncouth as the
other. Only after looking at it for some
time were we able to determine that its
clothes were meant to represent a dinner

WEIRD TALES

suit. Like the woman’s, his face was little
more suggestive of a human countenance
than a poorly executed plaster mask.

"Mordieu — quel im par fait!" muttered
Jules de Grandin. “They m'ost have been
in hot haste, those ones. Me, I could do
a better piece of work myself.”

For a moment he stood staring at the
concrete atrocities, then walked across the
gravelly lawn to a partly opened grave.
The diggers had left tools beside the trench
when they knodeed off working for the
day, and he took up a pick-ax, weighed
it in his hand a moment, then approached
the woman’s statue.

“My friends,” he announced, “here we
end our search. Regardez!"

The statue swayed upon its base as he
struck it with the flat side of the pick,
waited for a moment, then struck a sec-
ond time.

“Hey, what th’ devil do you think you’re
doin’?” stormed the superintendent. “I’ll
have th’ law on you ”

“Take it aisy, feller,” soothed Costello.
“I’m the law, an’ if he wants to bust that
thing to pieces you’re not goin’ to sthpp
’im. Git me?”

TTie Frenchman drew his pick back once
more and launched a battering smash
against the statue’s knees. This time it
shattered like a piece of broken crockery,
and where a three-foot flake of cement
dropped away there showed a stretch of
something pale and almost colorless. No
need to tell a doctor what it was. Every
first-semester student of anatomy knows
dead human flesh at sight.

“Good Lord, sor, is it her?” Costello
gasped.

“Indubitably it is she, my friend,” de
Grandin answered. “It is none other than
Senora Gutierrez. And that monstrosity”
— he pointed toward the other statue with
his pick-ax — "conceals her husband. Call
your men, mon Sergent. Have them take
these dreadful things away and break them

up, then put the bodies in the city morgue.”

“H’m, wonder what they did wid th’
other one?” the sergeant asked. ,

“The servant?” The Frenchman pointed
to the disturbed earth betv/een the statues’
bases. “I cannot say with certainty, but it
is my guess that if you dig there you will
find him.”

<^^NE reconstructs the crime,” he told
us sometime later at my house. “I
was as much at sea as you when first w'e
went into that house where they had taken
Senorita Gutierrez and her brother.
Cpupled w'ith the disappearance of the
bodies from the stolen hearse, the spots
of paint and plaster on the cellar floor,
the airbrushes and the drying-fan should
have told me how the corpses had been
hidden, but it was not till you found the
burying-deed that I had the idea. Even
then I thought that they had bought the
burial plot and put the bodies in it after
casing them in cement so the eartli would
not cave in upon them too soon and thus
disclose their hiding-place.

"But when the superintendent told us of
the statues and we looked upon their dread-
ful crudity, the whole thing became cleat
to me.

"Toutefois, the credit goes to you, mon
Sergent. It was you who put the riddle’s
key into my hands w'hen you showed me
that burial-deed. Yes, it is unquestion-
ably so.

“Do not forget to tell them when you
make your report to headquarters.”

He helped himself to an enormous
drink, and:

"Quelle facetie monumentale!" he mur-
mured with a wry face.

“What’s a 'monumental joke’?” I de-
manded.

"Pardieu, the one those so abominable
ones played on Colonel Gutierrez and his
lady — ^to make them stand as monuments
above their own graves!”

iants in the Sky

By FRANIC BELKNAP LONG, Jr.

An imaginative and astonishing tale, about three super-beings from another
cosmos, who snared two humans from Earth in their colossal microscope

T he girl and the man were hurtling
through the bright Alpine air
when the sun vanished. A chill
wind blew upon them and utter darkness
engulfed them. They thudded to earth,

turned over, and groped for each other
in blackness.

Their skis swished through the deep
snow of the high Alps as they thrashed
about. The girl began to sob, her hands

WEIRD TALES

seeking the strong hands of her compan-
ion. Presently fingers dosed tightly over
fingers in the mysterious, terrible dark.

The man sobbed: "Margaret, are you
hurt.?”

The girl’s voice was like a whisper from
the tomb. "My face is cut. There is blood
on my right temple. Oh, darling, what
happened.?”

The man’s fingers tightened. "I do not
know,” he groaned. "The sun ”

"An eclipse, Peter?”

The man shook his head. "Impossible.
The eclipse of 1940 will not even be visible
in Switzerland. And it’s mathematically
impossible for an eclipse to occur ahead
of schedule.”

“But why did the sun vanish?”

The man said: "I do not know, Mar-
garet. A cloud, perhaps. A sudden over-
casting of die sky.”

"But no cloud could form so suddenly.”

The man started to reply, then drew in
his breath sharply. The darkness was dis-
solving about them, draining away in thin
ripples over the snow-covered slopes.

High, in the sky to the east the sun
glowed again.

But was it the sun? Utter incredulity
engulfed the twain as they stared. High
in the sky there glowed a triangular sun,
a pale blue luminary that shed a diffuse
radiance over the peaks about them and
cast long, spectral sliadows on the tumbled
snow.

"Good God!” muttered the man. He
got cumbersomely to his feet, helping the
girl up with his right arm and using his
left for leverage.

Together they stood entranced, staring at
a sun swollen to twice its normal bulk, a
sun which hung in the pale heavens like
a colossal cchinoderm, its trianglar body
encircled by thin, wavering prominences
of dazzling brilliance.

They remained speechless for an instant.
Then the man said: "We’d best be getting

back to the chateau. If this isn’t a local
phenomenon, reports will be coming in by
radio.”

The girl’s fingers tightened in his clasp.
“I don’t think it’s really the sun. The
atmosphere may have distorted light —
freakishly, inexplicably. It could be a sort
of Brocken Specter, couldn’t it? Couldn’t
it, Peter?”

"I don’t know. A Brocken Specter is a
funnel of light slanting downward. It’s a
kind of luminous shadow cast upon a cloud
by an observer with his back to the sun, a
gigantic and misty image in the sky. It
doesn’t alter the shape of the sun.

"But it could be caused by refraction.
Only — it’s curious it should happen to us.”

Despite his mounting apprehension, the
man laughed. “Why, dear?”

“Well, because we’re meteorologists. If
it’s an atmosphere phenomenon, our see-
ing it at close range is dead against the law
of averages.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “Yes, per-
haps. But long-odd coincidences are con-
stantly occurring. Foreign correspondents
are usually on hand when wars start, and
when someone is murdered there is likely
to be a detective Johnny mixed up in it.
It’s more ironic than surprising. We’re not
merely meteorologists. We’re scientifically
minded idealists from the New World,
appalled by Europe’s descent into barbar-
ism. And now a new sun has risen over
Europe and we’re watching it from the
highest ”

"Please don’t jest about it,” interposed
the girl. “It’s too — too startling. I’m ter-
ribly frightened, Peter.”

The man said: “If I thought it was really
up our alley I’d wire in a detailed report
to the Smithsonian Institution and talce the
consequences. I’d be disbelieved, of course.
Charles Fort collected volumes of data
about phenomena as incredible as this and
he was laughed out of court. But let’s get
under way, dear.”

GIANTS IN THE SKY

Slowly they descended through the
heavy snow, holding fast to each other
and silent again, fear and apprehension
having fastened on their inmost souls.

The shadow fell so unobtrusively across
their path that they were completely un-
aware of it until it dimmed the light about
them.

The girl saw it first. She cried out and
recoiled in trepidation from a swelling,
amorphous blot that darkened the snow
beneath them. With appalling swiftness
the blot rose and flowed toward them, coil-
ing about tlieir limbs like a writhing
taint.

In the depths of the shadow something
flashed. Bright and swift as a naked crag
emerging from snow in a glacial landslide
it smote and simdered the twain, hurling
the man backward across the snow and lift-
ing the girl from the mountainside.

The girl shrieked and threw out her
arms as the bright object curved about her.
It enmeshed her limbs and lifted her so
swiftly from Earth that when the man
picked himself up she was a whirling mote
receding into the sky, a dancing midge
gleaming in the rays of the new and in-
credible sun.

All about him the wind roared and the
snow stirred in mysterious travail. There
was a roaring in his ears, an adumbration
of half-light that chilled his heart like ice.
The entire mountain quaked and trembled.
The slope buckled, throwing him forward
upon his face and half burying him in
snow.

He lay moaning and helpless while all
about him nature unleashed her furies.

Then, slowly, the mysterious turbulence
subsided. The wind died down and the
ground ceased to quiver. But though the
elements resumed their wonted calm, an
aura of intangible menace seemed still to
hover over the high Alps, and the silence
which ensued was more ghastly than any
sound.

TN THE wan light of the red giant sun

the planet Icurus spun steadily on its
axis, despite the new world which rested
on its bosom. The new world was no
larger than the pebbles on the beaches of
Icurian seas. It revolved on its own tiny
axis, and close to it was its own moon re-
volving. All about it was a nebulous aurora
which streamed outward in luminous
waves.

The planet Icurus was billions of miles
in circumference, but the midget planet
which reposed upon it had a mean semi-
diameter of less than four thousand miles.
The midget planet was a very weird little
world indeed.

Its continents were green with vegetation
and black with the concretions of intelli-
gent life. Thousands of animal forms
swam and crawled and flew in its waste
places and teeming hinterlands, but pri-
marily it was a world of intelligent bipeds
who had built beneath the stars titanic
concretions of metal and stone.

It had but one satellite, a pale, silvery
orb which revolved in the sky two hundred
thousand miles from its periphery. The
satellite was curious too. It was devoid of
water and atmosphere and its entire sur-
face was pitted as though it had collided in
space with thousands of Gargantuan me-
teors.

To the Great Shapes who contemplated
that little moon and its green and watery
primary on the planet Icurus space was not
bounded by the familiar constellations of
man. Island universes invisible to earthly
telescopes stretched out endlessly above
them to the rim of space.

The Great Shapes were clustered about
the little, alien globe under the wan light
of the red giant sun Lutal. Glowing with
reflected sunlight they stood motionlessly
in a circle about the aurora-enveloped new
world which was smaller than the tiniest

WEIRD TALES

firestone or light-concretion. Above them
arched a transparent dome of cyclopean
dimensions. Fashioned of glowing crystal
it spanned the Icurian landscape for mil-
lions of miles in all directions.

The Great Shapes were thousands of
miles tall. Vaguely man-like in contour,
they loomed beneath the great dome in
somber silhouette. The glowing rays of
Lutal caressed and enveloped them, but
beneath the surface-shimmer of the red
sun's rays was a curious, weaving opacity
which encroached on the brightness, send-
ing rifts of darkness cascading across their
stooped shoulders and titan limbs.

The little spinning globe beneath them
was revolving about a flaming cube tliat
hung suspended in space. Thousands of
miles above the surface of the planet
Icurus, but beneath the dome and the
Great Shapes’ downcast gaze, was a tiny
planetary system. Enveloped in a tenuous
haze, bisected by auroral beams, nine
planets were continuously revolving.

More curious in some respects than the
little globe which was absorbing their at-
tention were three of these planets. One
was almost as large as the central cube and
encircled by a wide, fiery band and ten
little moons of almost microscopic dimen-
sions. Another was a dull, mottled globe
companioned by four large and five small
moons and displaying near its equator a
motionless splotch of cloud-vapor as red
as a bloodstone. 'The third was rust-colored,
and covered with a fine network of thread-
like lines whicli snaked tenuously in all
directions.

One of the Great Shapes stirred sud-
denly, moving its limbs about and raising
its head in the Lutal glow. The face that
he turned skyward was gray and corru-
gated. To human perception it would have
seemed a repulsive face, but it was not
without symmetry, and the individual fea-
tures hinted at inscrutable endowments of
intelligence and power.

The Shape’s eyes were on stalks which
projected hundreds of miles from the sum-
mit of its countenance. Its nose was a flat,
triangular depression a thousand miles in
diameter and its mouth was a puckered
orifice, the outer circumference of which
was constantly in motion.

The Great Shape moved slowly in a
circle about his companions, his face up-
raised in contemplation of the shining
vault above him. Directly overhead the
giant red sun glowed sanguineously in the
star-hung firmament, its colossal promi-
nences tapering to the zenith like the radi-
ating arms of some celestial echinoderm.
The sky was a sickly cadaverous green,
shot through with diffuse shafts of rose
and saffron.

'There were three Great Shapes about
the tiny revolving system. Slowly they shed
their immobility, stirring their cyclopean
limbs, raising their projecting eyes and
regarding each other somberly beneath the
dome.

rpHE moving one was the first to speak.
-L He stopped suddenly in his pacing, and
his voice pealed out sonorously amidst the
silences.

“It is not a negligible achievement to
have traveled to the mysterious center of
the mysterious universe, and ensnared an
entire planetary system in tlie shell-nimbus
of our radiant absorption nets. With mi-
raculous skill we have preserved this sys-
tem intact, removing only the central sim
and substituting a radiating metatom.’’

He paused an instant, then resumed:
'T remember gazing from the observation
cylinder when our great vessel clove the
intergalactic abyss, traveling back to Lutal
through the glowing pores of space. Glori-
ously we returned from our perilous pil-
grimage, our absorption tubes glowing in
the light of a million million suns, our
absorption nets trailing out behind us.

“I remember gazing from the observa-

GIANTS IN THE SKY

rion q^linder, and watching the little, lumi-
nous system revolving in the net far be-
hind us. I w’as proud, proud! I felt that
we were akin to the eternal. I spoke of
our voyage as a pilgrimage. It was cer-
tainly that, a pilgrimage to the mysterious
core of the mysterious universe.

"To the Great Architect we must have
seemed audacious indeed. But the desire
to know, to understand, is so deeply in-
grained in us that — well, I feel somehow
that it was implanted in us to serve some
sublime purpose, some truly cosmic aim.”

Another of the Great Shapes spoke then,
his voice sonorous with emotion: "That
is true, Mulange. Our journey to the core
of space was a pilgrimage to an inner
shrine, and in making it we drew close to
the eternal. We know now that the uni-
verse is wonderful beyond description in
all its parts, even to the tiniest planet re-
volving about the tiniest sun.”

The one called Mulange said: 'T cannot
think we did wrong in capturing this
strange little system and establishing it
here on Icurus in our knowledge vault.
But we must not preen ourselves unduly.
We returned too swiftly through the space-
pores. We should have permitted a little
time to seep in through the absorption
tubes. In returning timelessly, we rup-
tured the central sun.

"I saw it rupture when we were almost
at our journey’s end. Before it could
destroy the nine little planets I removed
it from the system, drawing it by convexial
suction from the absorption net, and sub-
stituting a metatom in its place.”

A third Shape began to pace about,
Cyclopean shoulders hunched in medita-
tion. "You acted with rare presence of
mind, Mulange. The system is still intact.
It is only the pathetic little bipeds of Earth
who arc disturbed by the change.”

Mulange said: "Earth. I wonder if we
pronounce that strange monosyllable cor-
rectly. Earth.”

"The magnification was ten million
times,” said the second Shape. "It is true
that the auditory magnification disk does
not function accurately when the sounds
are grating, but the Earth-biped has a
clear, bell-like voice.”

"I should like to examine the Earth-
biped again,” said Mulange. “It is a most
fascinating creature, Shalaan.”

The second Shape said: "Yes — ^well,

we can do that.”

The third Shape was less massive than
Mulange, and had a curiously smooth-tex-
tured face. She gave her companions a
quick, reproving glance from her stalked
eyes, and was suddenly still.

"Mulange is a fool,” she said. '"The
Earth-biped is fascinating as an object of
study. But Mulange broods over it. He
pities it, and talks to it as though it were
an Icurian.”

Mulange said: "I was compelled to ob-
serve it over a long period of time, Lulalan.
How else could I have fathomed its curi-
ous, sibilant language? Fortunately it has
a habit of talking to itself.”

Shalaan said: "It is obviously terrified.
I do not think the Earth-bipeds ordinarily
talk to themselves.”

“Its behavior is peculiar and disturbing,”
agreed Lulalan.

Mulange said: "Removing it from near
the summit of the Earth-mountain was no
simple task. When I reached down amid
the teeming millions of its kind with
micro-nets designed for sport-dredging in
the infinitely less minute matrix of a
Spaalon colony and captured it alive and
unharmed I was filled with elation. When
I withdrew the net I thought that the ter-
rible acceleration would kill it. But ap-
parently it can endure an acceleration of
eight kutas a cilolan. As soon as I lifted
it free of Earth’s atmosphere I dropped it
into an absorption net and transferred it
timelessly to the observation membrane of
the magnification tube.”

WEIRD TALES

Shalaan said: "Let us examine it again,
Mulange."

S LOWLY the three Shapes drew to-
gether until they were standing som-
berly abreast beneath the red giant sun.
They remained for an instant immobile,
the blood-hued rays caressing their titan
bodies and lowered heads. Then in single
file they strode ponderously away across
die dome.

A luminous mist swirled up about them
as they receded from the little, haze-sus-
pended system and progressed through a
glowing void which was bounded above by
the pale sheen of the dome and beneath
by the black, crater-pitted soil of the planet
Icutus.

The Cyclopean magnification tube loomed
obscurely out of the mist. Thousands of
miles in circumference, it towered from
the pitted soil in rugose segments which
gleamed dully in the Lutal light. From
its tapering summit there projected a gi-
gantic horizontal disk studded with in-
numerable tiny depressions, and marginal
elevations of sanguinary hue.

In utter silence the Shapes grouped
themselves about the great tube, their pro-
jecting eyes roving in all directions, their
Cyclopean arms continuously in motion.

Mulange was the first to speak. "I hope
that it has consumed all the food I placed
on the observation disk,” he said. "It will
feed only on minute globules of the creep-
ing green Earth-life.”

Lulalan nodded and lowered her great,
wrinkled face until it was within a few
thousand miles of the summit of the tube.
Waveringly her stalked eye descended and
glued itself to the instrument of science.

She stared for a moment down into a
filmy opacity thousands of miles in depth.
Then her titan hands went out and fastened
on tire uppermost segment of the tube.

“We shall see,” she said, and began
twisting the segment about with her fingers.

Slowly the opacity dissolved, becoming
crystal-clear. In the depths of the glowing
instrument a tiny shape sprang suddenly
into view.

The Earth-woman was sitting cross-
legged in the center of the observation
membrane, her head bent sharply forward,
her long auburn hair descending to her
knees. Only her bent back and slender
limbs were visible to Lulalan’s downward-
peering gaze.

Lulalan removed her eye from the tube
and murmured: "All the food is gone,
Mulange.”

Mulange exclaimed joyously: "Then it
will live, Lulalan! As you know, it re-
fused nourishment at first. Then it fed
voraciously, and refused nourishment
again.. But if all the food is gone ”

"An encouraging sign, of course,” inter-
posed Shalaan. "But we must not be too
optimistic.”

Mulange moved closer to the tube, his
great, corrugated face twitching with emo-
tion. He did not even glance at Lulalan.
In tremulous haste he shouldered his com-
panions aside, and his stalked eyes de-
scended swiftly, converging at the summit
of the tube.

Lulalan said: “You see, Shalaan. He
must look at it with both eyes, as though
it were a dear companion. He must see
it in relief, because it is lovely in his sight.
Oh, I am bereft, Shalaan.”

Idulange ignored her. He was looking
down at the little, shape, his face glowing
with tenderness and rapture.

Tlie Earth-woman seemed suddenly to
become aware of the great eye millions of
miles above her. She stirred on the mem-
brane and raised her pale face. For a mo-
ment she remained staring upward, seeing
only a white, starless sky-vault and a colos-
sal shadow which merged with the fathom-
lessness of alien space.

Then she got gropingly to her feet.
Swaying and moaning, she raised her puny

GIANTS IN THE SKY

hands and drew back the hair from her
countenance, dividing it into two silky
strands. Her eyes were dark, tormented.

Mulange murmured: "Poor, pitiful lit-
tle one. If only I could comfort you!”

Shalaan shrugged impatiently. "Lulalan
is right, Mulange. You are really ill.”

Mulange did not reply. He was watch-
ing the little form stagger across the mem-
brane, arms upraised in pitiful appeal.

From the projecting disk at the summit
of the tube a despairful cry issued. "Peter!
Peter!”

To Mulange, who saw the Earth-
woman’s lips move, the voice which issued
from the auditory magnification disk was
poignantly moving — a tragic, intimate cry.
But to his companions it was merely an
interesting amplification of sound — a star-
tlingly clear magnification of an Earth-
biped’s micro-speech.

"It is always using that monosyllable,”
said Shalaan. "Peter. Perhaps Peter is
another name for Earth.”

Mulange raised his eyes from the tube,
his great face wan with compassion. "If
I could bring her Peter,” he said.

"I’m weary of watching you brood over
it," said Shalaan irritably. "If I were
Lulalan I would seek another companion.”

Lulalan bent her head. Mulange drew
close to her, his elephantine footfalls echo-
ing across the dome.

"Do not grieve, Lulalan,” he murmured
tenderly. "It is a momentary madness. It
will pass. The deep affection which unites
us is indestructible, and we shall remain
dear companions until we die.”

Shalaan said: "This is all very annoy-
ing. I prefer the company of our nine
little planets.”

Abruptly he turned and strode away
across the dome.

Lulalan said: "I pity you, Mulange.
You are weak and foolish.”

Mulange made no attempt to detain
her when she followed Shalaan into the

mist. He stood straight a moment be-
side the tube, his enormous face grief-
shadowed. He knew the wonder of Lu-
lalan, and his need of her was great. But
in his titan body a strange madness surged.

Within the tube was a speck of animate
matter tinier than the mist-grains which
clogged the nuclei of light-concretions in-
visible to his naked vision. Yet that minute
speck was infinitely precious in his sight.

S LOWLY he bent again and applied his
eye to the summit of the tube.

The Earth-woman was lying at full
length on the observation membrane, her
tiny form racked with sobs. Her long hair
was spread out fanwise over her slender
body, enmeshing its whiteness in a red-
gold web that glimmered under the stu-
pendous magnification with little wavering
coruscations of light.

"Do not grieve, little one,” Mulange
murmured. "I will watch over you and
protect you.”

Out of the mist boomed a sonorous
voice. "Mulange, come here. The most
extraordinary light has appeared on the
planet Earth.”

Mulange straightened abruptly, his co-
lossal limbs jerking in sudden wonder.
Gisting upon the tube a look of infinite
tenderness and yearning, he turned about
and strode swiftly forward through the
mist.

Lulalan and Shalaan were grouped about
the little revolving system, their light-
aureoled heads down-bent when he came
striding toward them out of the Lutal
glow.

Lulalan raised sorrow-filmed eyes and
looked at him accusingly, her great body
tremulous with grief. But Shalaan’s eyes
were shining. He seemed very excited
indeed.

"We were watching Earth when we saw
a blinding flash of light,” he said, "a bril-
liant white flare which obscured tlie polar

WEIRD TALES

continent. It lingered an instant, then
vanished.”

Mulange said: "One of Earth’s fire-
belching cones, perhaps. An eruption of
the planet's interior heat.”

Lulalan said: "We have watched five
of the cones in eruption. The flames were
less fugitive, less brilliant. No, this was
an unique eruption.”

"Well, we shall see,” said Mulange.

He turned abruptly, and strode away
through the mist. When he returned he
was clutching in his gigantic hand a small,
fine-textured web that glowed iridescently
in the Lutal light.

"We shall dredge above the region of
the eruption with a micro-net,” he said.

Shalaan said: "An excellent idea, Mu-
lange. But you must float the net down
gradually. The little fleecy atmosphere con-
cretions near the planet’s surface will clog
its pores unless you manipulate it with
great skill and precision.”

"I will not dredge in the lower atmo-
sphere,” replied Mulange. "If the erup-
tion really was violent and extensive, we
shall find debris scattered in the tenuous
vapor-strata high above the plant’s crust.”

Shalaan lowered his stalked eyes in
assent. "I imderstand, Mulange. It is even
conceivable that you will find debris out
beyond the plant’s satellite. Would it not
be wise to simply lower the net and sweep
it in a wide arc through space?”

Lulalan said: "Perhaps we should ex-
amine the region under a small magnifi-
cation tube first, probe with sight into the
vapor-strata. You succeeded very well when
you examined the little bipeds’ habitations
through the tube.”

Mulange said: "Yes, but the tube looms
menacingly in their skies. They are suf-
ficiently terrified already.”

"I believe we shall succeed better with
the net,” agreed Shalaan. "Lower it,
Mulange.”

Mulange stooped low above the system,

the glowing web dangling from his out-
stretched fingers. Bending his gaze on the
Earth, he floated the porous snare down
slowly, manipulating it with such skill that
it was soon dangling directly above the
little, spinning planet. Slowly his great
hand moved to and fro in the Lutal light.

"Are you dredging beyond the satellite?”
asked Shalaan, peering curiously over
Mulange’s hunched shoulders.

Mulange raised one of his stalked eyes
and bent its vision backward into Shalaan’s
gray shadowy face. The other eye he kept
trained on Earth.

"Yes, Shalaan. I am simply sweeping
the net back and forth as you suggested.”

Suddenly his great body began to quiver.
He remained in a stooping posture, but his
hand ceased to move, and the eye that was
trained on Shalaan’s face straightened out
and coiled downward to join its companion.

Lulalan said: "What is it, Mulange?
You haven’t ensnared the satellite?”

Mulange raised his great face suddenly.

"The net is heavier,” he said. "I have
either enmeshed a large firestone, or some
debris from the eruption. We shall know
presently.”

Shalaan and Lulalan stood very still,
watching him as he maneuvered the net
out of the planet-studded haze and held
it up in the Lutal glow. Its iridescent
meshes cascaded over the vast gray hollow
of his hand like waves breaking on an
Icurian beach.

Six stalked eyes studied the net as it
rested on his titan palm. Four stalked
eyes turned away bewildered, their vision
frustrated by the web’s glowing sheen.
Only Mulange remained steadfastly staring,
his face impassively raised a few thousand
miles from the Lutal-reddened meshes.

Suddenly he said: “Yes, there is a tiny
object in the net. It is larger than a fire-
stone, but I cannot distinguish it clearly.”

"Then we must place it under the mag-
nification tube,” said Shalaan.

GIANTS IN' THE SKY

Lulalan spoke then for the first time.
"We will place it on the disk with the
Earth-biped,” she said.

Slowly Mulange lowered his hand.
"How can we be sure that it will not harm
her?” he exclaimed, apprehension in his
tone.

Shalaan said: "If it is not radiant, it will
not harm her. Enough of this foolishness,
Mulange.”

Somberly the Great Shapes drew together
again and returned in silence to the tube.

Mulange seemed reluctant to relinquish
the web. He stood with stooped shoulders
before the great instrument, holding the
web on his palm, his eyes focussed on
Shalaan’s rugose face.

He was reluctant to oppose Shalaan.
Shalaan was the oldest living Icurian —
and the wisest. No one had ever opposed
Shalaan.

Lulalan said: "Give me the net, Mu-
langc. I will insert it in the tube.”

Mulange’s great body seemed to droop.
He extended his hand and turned away, his
face quivering.

Lulalan held the net firmly between her
fingers and squatted in the red Lutal light,
fumbling with her free hand at the base
of the tube. The tube’s lowermost seg-
ment divided at her touch. As though by
magic fission its cylindrical bulk became
two gleaming half-cones. Lulalan let the
net slip from her fingers and stood up.
Instantly the half -cones coalesced again.

The interior mechanism of the tube was
complex and ingenious. The dropped web
was automatically sucked into a defining
vortex and transferred to the observation
membrane with microscopic precision.

Lulalan regarded Mulange for an in-
stant in silence. Then she said: "Examine
it, Mulange. I can see that you are tor-
mented by misgivings.”

Quivering, Mulange’s stalked eyes de-
scended and glued themselves to the sum-
mit of the tube. The magnification mechan-

ism was still adjusted to his vision. With
startling clarity the observation membrane
came into view in the glimmering depths
of the tube.

rpHERE were now two objects on the
membrane. The Earth-woman was
standing quiveringly erect under crystal-
bright skies, her tiny body enveloped in a
red-gold glory, her pale face suffused with
wonder. A short distance away a long
cylindrical shape rested slantwise on the
slide, its glowing bulk enmeshed in die
porous, shimmering folds of the micro-net.

The shining cylinder dwarfed the Earth-
woman’s minikin form and cast faint,
irregular shadows on the polished surface
of the membrane. 'The entire lateral sur-
face of the cylinder was studded with tiny,
knob-like elevations which revolved con-
tinuously in the crystalline radiance that
flooded the interior of the tube.

Suddenly, as Mulange stared, one of
these elevations ceased to rotate. Its cir-
cumference contracted and a wide band of
light streamed outward from its extrem-
ity across the cylinder’s bulk.

'The Earth-woman was moving now. Her
eyes strangely luminous, she was advancing
toward the cylinder with faltering steps.

From the light-rimmed projection a tiny
form emerged. Leaping abruptly into view,
it stood aureoled in the upstreaming glow.
Though it was no larger than the Earth-
woman, its contours were grotesque. Its
head was a shining ebon globe, its limbs
segmented and awkwardly dangling. In
the center of its bulbous face a single eye
glowed dully.

'The figure had emerged near the taper-
ing extremity of the cylinder. Beneath it
was a gleaming convexity which sloped
gradually to the surface of the membrane.
Above it arched the glistening meshes of
the micro-net.

When the Earth-woman reached the base

100

WEIRD TALES

of the q^Iinder her slender hands darted
to her throat. She swayed a little and stood
staring up through the crystalline glow at
the tiny, segmented baroque far above her.

Slowly the little form started down the
sloping surface of the cylinder, its body
slanting backward, its globular head bob-
bing curiously on its shoulders.

Although the cylinder’s surface was
slightly corrugated, the descent was a
perilous one. Twice the little figure stum-
bled and nearly fell. But with slow,
unwieldy movements it regained its pre-
carious balance and continued to move
downward, arriving at last at the base of
the cylinder where the Earth-woman was
waiting.

For an instant it stood very still regard-
ing her, its grotesque body swaying from
side to side. Then it raised tiny, claw-like
hands and clutched at its globular head.

A pulsing horror quivered through
Mulange’s great body.

The little shape was removing its head.
Slowly it lifted the gleaming globe in the
crystalline glow, slowly it shed its seg-
mented outer skin. Slowly and incredibly
at the base of the cylinder the little shape
emerged transformed from its coverings.

Standing before the Earth-woman at the
base of the cylinder was a tiny Earth-man,
a strange dazzlement in his eyes, his body
quivering with emotion.

The Earth-woman was quivering too —
quivering, sobbing! "Peter! Peter! Oh,
my darling, my dear one!"

The thing which happened then was
utterly incomprehensible to Mulange. The
Earth-man cried out exultantly, caught the
Earth-woman in his arms, and pressed his
face with incredible vehemence against her
hair and lips and eyes.

It was incomprehensible to Mulange.
And yet — all the stars of heaven seemed
to go out as he stared. All his world grew
dark about him, abysmally, shudderingly
dark. Even Lutal ceased to warm him.

The Earth-man was murmuring softly:
*T thought I was going to my death. But
we had to know. We had to know what
had happened to our universe. All the
stars were gone, and the sun — the sun was
alien and strange, a radiant cube in the
heavens, an unfathomable field of force.

“With Governmental backing the Smith-
sonian Institution constructed a rocket,
enlisting the aid of our foremost scientists
and engineers, and raising funds by popu-
lar subscription.

“I volunteered my services, Margaret.
I offered to pilot the rocket. Three days
ago I was shot away from Earth’s southern
pole at a constantly accelerating speed.
When I passed the heavy-side layer, auto-
matic controls regulated the power, reduc-
ing it again to the square of the distance
which I ”

Mulange did not linger to hear more.
Slowly he withdrew his gaze from the
magnification tube, his great body droop-
ing, quivering. He did not look at his
companions. Tormented, despairing, he
stumbled blindly away through the mist.

Lutal was low in the heavens when
Lulalan found him. He was lying sprawled
out at full length on the pitted soil, his
limbs twisted about the crater-like nest of
an Icurian tube creeper, his cyclopean
shoulders tremulous in the waning sun-
light.

Lulalan stood for an instant gazing down
at him, her great, wrinkled face luminous
with compassion.

'Then she knelt and began tenderly to
stroke his back.

"Do not grieve, Mulange,” she mur-
mured. "We are together again. We shall
be dear companions until we die.”

Slowly Mulange stirred. He untwined
his limbs, turned ponderously about, and
raised his face in the red glow.

"I need you, Lulalan,” he murmured.
"Without you, my life would be desolate
indeed.”

GIANTS IN THE SKY

101

Lukian said: *'I will never leave you,
Mulange,”

TN THE depths of the great magnifying-
instrument the man and the girl stared
upward at an alien sky, their fingers inter-
twined in the mysterious, terrible light.

The rnan said: "We must not despair,
Margaret. Our dream of love is a great,
eternal dream. Our little lives may be
snuffed out, but we have experienced a
fulfilment which time cannot mar nor space
destroy.”

The girl nodded, her eyes misting. 'T

do not think we shall perish, Peter. I feel
somehow that we have come too far, that
our reunion is — a sort of miracle, Peter.
We shall travel farther perhaps, and for a
little while darkness may come between us
again.

"But nothing is ever lost in space or
time. Oh, I am sure of that!”

The man smiled and kissed her and drew
her into his arms. And as they clung
together the light in the depths of the great
tube seemed to brighten about them, and
their apprehension vanished like blown
vapor.

©upin and Another

By VINCENT STARRETT

"Here is the dusk again; the friendly night!

Unbar the shutters, Edgar, and look down:

See how the shadows stir with knave and clown —
Fugitive nomads from the hours of light.

Each on his private mischief bent. The day
Will look perhaps on figures just as ill —

Some stiff, cold corpse, fantastically still;

Something that lives and screams and runs away.

Mark how the darkness writhes: this stealthy murk.

Damp from its river crossings, blows a breath

Of evil import; and outrageous death

Slinks in the shades where bawds and lovers lurk. , , .

Shall we descend and, if the night permits.

Seek some small problem to perplex our wits?”

”His sword sank into the body of the fire-monster, enveloping them both in blinding blue flames.”

imuric

By ROBERT E. EIOWARD

An amazing storyijrom the pen oj a master of weird fiction, which begins
on our own planet arul ends in the demon-haunted world Almuric

The Story Thus Far

E sau cairn, the strongest athlete
on Earth, kills the political boss of
his city, and flees for protection to
the laboratory of Professor Hildebrand.
That great scientist has recently discovered

the Great Secret — how to transport living
beings to other planets by dematerializing
them. He sends Esau to a distant world
known as Almuric.

Esau lives for several months in the
Hills, populated by weird animal forms

102

ALMURIC

103

against which he wages continual war. He
finally leaves the Hills, and is captured by
the ape-like men of a city of black rock,
known as Koth. The Kothan women are
smooth-skinned and beautiful like those of
our own world but the men are shaggy-
haired and great-muscled, and live by
hunting.

Esau is taken into the tribe after a ter-
rific duel with Ghor, the strongest of the
Kothans. He is given the name of Esau
Ironhand for his mighty feat in vanquish-
ing Ghor, who now becomes his staunchest
friend.

The planet is divided into two hemi-
spheres by a great natural wall of stone,
and weird winged people live on the far-
ther hemisphere. While trying to rescue
Altha, whose father is chief of the Ko-
thans, Esau is captured and carried through
the air to the black city of horror known
as Yugga, and ruled by a dusky queen
named Yasmeena. Altha is made a slave to
Yasmeena.

Esau’s smooth white skin and blue eyes
excite the interest of the winged ruler.

The story continues:

PART III

TV /TUCH I learned of the ways of that
terrible people, who have reigned
over Almuric since ages beyond the memory
of man. They might have been human
once, long ago, but I doubt it. I believe
they represented a separate branch on the
tree of evolution, and that it is only an
incredible freak of coincidence which cast
them in a mold so similar to man, instead
of the shapes of the abysmal, howling,
blasphemous dwellers of Outer Darkness.

In many ways they seemed, superficially,
human enough, but if one followed their
lines of consciousness far enough, he would
come upon phases inexplicable and alien to
humanity. As far as pure intellect went,
they were superior to the hairy Guras. But

they lacked altogether the decency, honesty,
courage, and general manliness of the ape-
men. The Guras were quick to wrath,
savage and brutal in their anger; but there
was a studied cruelty about the Yagas
which made the others seem like mere
rough children. The Yagas were merciless
in their calmest moments; roused to anger,
their excesses were horrible to behold.

They were a numerous horde, the war-
riors alone numbering some twenty thou-
sand. There were more women than men,
and with their slaves, of which each male
and female Yaga possessed a goodly num-
ber, the city of Yugga was fully occupied.
Indeed, I was surprised to learn of the mul-
titudes of people who dwelt there, consider-
ing the comparative smallness of the rock
Yuthla on which the city was built. But
its space was greater vertically than hori-
2ontally. The castles and towers soared
high into the air, and several tiers of cham-
bers and corridors were sunk into the rock
itself. When the Yagas felt themselves
crowded for space, they simply butchered
their slaves. I saw no children; losses in
war were comparatively slight, and plagues
and diseases unknown. Children were pro-
duced only at regular intervals, some three
centuries apart. The last flock had come
of age; the next brood was somewhere in
the dim distance of the future.

The lords of Yugga did no sort of work,
but passed their lives in sensual pleasures.
Their knowledge and adeptness at de-
bauchery would have shamed the most
voluptuous libertine in later Rome. Their
debauches were intermpted only by raids
on the outer world in order to procure
women slaves.

The town at the foot of the cliff was
called Akka, the blue people Akki, or
Akkas. They had been subject to the
Yagas as far back as tradition extended.
They were merely stupid work-animals,
laboring in the irrigated fields of fruits
and edible plants, and otherwise doing the

104

WEIRD TALES

will of their masters, whom they considered
superior beings, if not veritable gods. They
worshipped Yasmeena as a deity. Outside
of continual toil, they were not mistreated.
Their women were ugly and beast-like. The
winged people had a keen esthetic sense,
though their interest in the beauty of the
lower orders was sadistic and altogether
beastly. The Akkas never came into the
upper city, except when there was work to
be done there, too heavy for the women
slaves. Then they ascended and descended
by means of great silken ladders let down
from the rock. There was no road leading
up from below, since the Yagas needed
none. The cliffs could not be scaled; so
the winged people had no fear of an Akka
uprising.

The Yaga women were likewise pris-
oners on the rock Yuthla. Their wings
were carefully removed at birth. Only the
infants destined to become queens of
Yugga were spared. This was done in
order to keep the male sex in supremacy,
and indeed, I was never able to learn how,
and at what distant date, the men of Yugga
gained supremacy over their women; for,
judging from Yasmeena, the winged
women were superior to their mates in
agility, endurance, courage and even in
strength. Clipping their wings kept them
from developing their full superiority.

Yasmeena was an example of what a
winged woman could be. She was taller
than the other Yaga females, who in turn
were taller than the Gura women, and
though voluptuously shaped, the steel
thews of a wildcat lurked in her slender
rounded limbs. She was young — all the
women of Yugga looked young. The
average life-span of the Yaga was nine
hundred years. Yasmeena had reigned
over Yugga for four hundred years. Three
winged princesses of royal blood had con-
tested with her for the right to rule, and
she had slain each of them, fighting with
naked hands in the regal octagonal cham-

ber, As long as she could defend her
crown against younger claimants, she
would rule.

rriHE lot of the slaves in Yugga was
hideous. None ever knew when she
would be dismembered for the cooking-pot,
and the lives of all were tormented by the
cruel whims of their masters and mistresses.
Yugga was as like Hell as any place could
be. I do not khow what went on in the
palaces of the nobles and warriors, but I
do know what took place daily in the
palace of the Queen. There was never a
day or night that those dusky walls did
not re-echo screams of agony and piteous
wails for mercy, mingled with vindictive
maledictions, or lascivious laughter,

I never became accustomed to it, hard
as I was physically and mentally. I think
the only thing that kept me from going
mad was the feeling that I must keep my
sanity in order to protect Altha if I could.
That was precious little: I was chained in
my chamber; where the Kothan girl was,
I had not the slightest idea, except that she
was somewhere in the palace of Yasmeena,
where she was protected from the lust of
the winged men, but not from the cruelty
of her mistress.

In Yugga I heard sounds and saw sights
not to be repeated — not even to be remem-
bered in dreams. Men and women, the
Yagas were open and candid in their evil.
Their utter cynicism banished ordinary
scruples of modesty and common decency.
Their bestialities were naked, unhidden
and shameless. They followed their de-
sires with one another, and practised their
tortures on their wretched slaves with no
attempt at concealment. Deeming them-
selves gods, they considered themselves
above the considerations that guide ordi-
nary humans. The women were more
vicious than the men, if such a thing were
possible. The refinements of their cruel-
ties toward their trembling slaves cannot

ALMURIC

105 ^

be even hinted at. They were versed in
every art of torture, both mental and
physical. But enough. I can but hint at
what is unrepeatable.

Those days of captivity seem like a dim
nightmare. I was not badly treated, per-
sonally. Each day I was escorted on a sort
of promenade about the palace — something
on the order of giving a confined animal
exercise. I was always accompanied by
seven or eight warriors armed to the teeth,
and always wore my chains. Several times
on these promenades I saw Altha, going
about her duties, but she always averted
her gaze and hurried by. I understood, and
made no attempt to speak to her. I had
placed her in jeopardy already by speaking
of her to Yasmeena. Better let the Queen
forget about her, if possible. Slaves were
safest when the Queen of Yagg remem-
bered them least.

Somewhere, somehow, I found in me
power to throttle my red rage and blind
fury. When my very brain reeled with
the lust to break my chains and explode
into a holocaust of slaughter, I held myself
with iron grasp. And the fury ate inward
into my soul, crystallizing my hate. So
the days passed, until the night that Yas-
meena again sent for me.

'Y’ASMEENA cupped her chin in her
-L slim hands and fixed her great dark
eyes on me. We were alone in a chamber
I had never entered before. It was night.
I sat on a divan opposite her, my limbs
unshackled. She had offered me temporary
freedom if I would promise not to harm
her, and to go back into shackles when she
bade me. I had promised. I was never a
clever man, but my hate had sharpened my
wits. I was playing a game of my own.

"What are you thinking of, Esau Iron-
hand?” she asked.

“I’m thirsty,” I answered.

She indicated a crystal vessel near at
hand. "Drink a little of the golden wine
— not much, or it will make you drunk.
It is the most powerful drink in the world.
Not even I can quaff that vessel without
lying senseless for hours. And you are
unaccustomed to it.”

I sipped a little of it. It was indeed
heady liquor.

Yasmeena stretched her limbs out on her
couch, and asked: “Why do you hate me?
Have I not treated you well?”

"I have not said that I hated you,” I
countered. "You are very beautiful. But
you are cruel.”

She shrugged her winged shoulders.
"Cruel? I am a goddess. What have I to
do with either cruelty or mercy? Those
qualities are for men. Humanity exists for
my pleasure. Does not all life emanate
from me?”

"Your stupid Akkis may believe that,”
I replied; "but I know otherwise, and so
do you.”

She laughed, not offended. "Well, I
may not be able to create life, but I can
destroy life at will. I may not be a god-
dess, but you would find it difficult to
convince these foolish wenches who serve
me that I am not all-powerful. No, Iron-
hand; the gods are only another name for
Power. I am Power on this planet; so I
am a goddess. What do your hairy friends,
the Guras, worship?”

’"They worship Thak; at least they
acknowledge Thak as the creator and pre-
server. They have no regular ritual of
worship, no temples, altars or priests. Thak
is the Hairy One, the god in the form of
man. He bellows in the tempest, and
thunders in the hills with the voice of the
lion. He loves brave men, and hates
weaklings, but he neither harms nor aids.
When a male child is born, he blows into
it courage and strength; when a warrior
dies, he ascends to Thak’s abode, which is
a land of celestial plains, rivers and moun-

106

WEIRD TALES

tains, swarming with game, and inhabited
by the spirits of departed warriors, who
hunt, fight and revel forever as they did
in life."

She laughed. "Stupid pigs. Death is
oblivion. We Yagas worship only our own
bodies. And to our bodies we make rich
sacrifices with the bodies of the foolish
little people.”

"Your rule cannot last forever,” I was
moved to remark.

“It has lasted since beyond the gray
dawn of Time’s beginning. On the dark
rock Yuthla my people have brooded
through ages uncountable. Before the cities
of the Guras dotted the plains, we dwelt
in the land of Yagg. 'We were always
masters. As we rule the Guras, so we
ruled the mysterious race which possessed
the land before the Guras evolved from
the ape: the race which reared their cities
of marble whose ruins now affright the
moon, and which perished in the night.

"Tales! I could tell you tales to blast
your reason! I could tell you of races
whicli appeared from the mist of mystery,
moved across the world in restless waves,
and vanished in the midst of oblivion. We
of Yugga have watched them come and go,
each in turn bending beneath the yoke of
our godship. We have endured, not cen-
turies or millenniums, but cycles.

“Why should not our rule endure for-
ever? How shall these Gura-fools over-
come us? You have seen how it is when
my hawks swoop from the air in the night
on the cities of the apemen. How then
shall they attack us in our eyrie? To reach
the land of Yagg they must cross the Purple
River, whose waters race too swiftly to be
swum. Only at the Bridge of Rocks can
it be crossed, and there keen-eyed guards
watch night and day. The watchers
brought w’ord of their coming and the men
of Yagg were prepared. In the midst of
the desert they fell on the invaders and
destroyed them by thirst and madness and

arrows showering upon them from the
skies.

“Suppose a horde should fight its way
through the desert and reach the rock
Yuthla? They have the river Yogh to
cross, and when they have crossed it, in
the teeth of the Akki spears, what then?
They could not scale the cliffs. No; no
foreign foe will ever set foot in Yugga.
If, by the wildest whim of the gods, such
thing should come to pass’’ — her beautiful
features became even more cruel and sin-
ister — “rather than submit to conquest I
would loose the Ultimate Horror, and
perish in the ruins of my city,” she whis-
pered, more to herself than to me.

“What do you say?” I asked, not under-
standing.

She lifted her head and fixed me with
an enigmatic stare.

“There are secrets beneath the velvet
coverings of the darkest secrets,” she said.
“Tread not where the very gods tremble.
I said nothing — you heard nothing. Re-
member that!”

There was silence for a space, and then
I asked a question I had long mulled over:
“Whence come these red girls and yellow
girls among your slaves?”

“You have looked southward from the
highest towers on clear days, and seen
a faint blue line rimming the sky far
away? 'That is the Girdle that bands the
world. Beyond that Girdle dwell the races
from which come those alien slaves. We
raid across the Girdle just as we raid the
Guras, though less frequently.”

I WAS about to ask more concerning
these unknown races, when a timid tap
came on the outer door. Yasmeena, frown-
ing at the interruption, called a sharp
question, and a frightened feminine voice
informed her that the lord Gotrah desired
audience. Yasmeena spat an oath at her,
and bade her tell the lord Gotrah to go to
the devil.

ALMURIC

107

"No, I must see the fellow,” she said,
rising. "Theta! Oh, Theta! Where has
the little minx gone? I must do my own
biddings, must I? Her buttocks shall smart
for her insolence. Wait here, Ironhand.
I’ll see to Gotrah.”

She crossed the cushion-strewn chamber
with her lithe long stride, and passed
through the door. As it closed behind her,
I was struck by what was nothing less than
an inspiration. No especial reason oc-
curred to me to urge me to feign drunken-
ness. It was intuition or blind chance that
prompted me. Snatching up the crystal
jug which contained the golden wine, I
emptied it into a great golden vessel which
stood half hidden beneath the fringe of a
tapestry. I had drunk enough for the scent
to be on my breath.

Then, as I heard footsteps and voices
without, I extended myself quickly on a
divan, the jug lying on its side near my
outstretched hand. I heard the door open,
and there was an instant’s silence so intense
as to be almost tangible. Then Yasmeena
spat like an angry cat. "By the gods, he’s
emptied the jug! See how he lies in brutish
slumber! Faugh! The noblest figure is
abominable when besotted. Well, let us
to our task. We need not fear to be over-
heard by him.”

"Had I not better summon the guard
and have him dragged to his cell?” came
Gotrah’s voice. “We cannot afford to take
chances with this secret, which none has
ever known except the Queen of Yugga
and her major-domo.”

I sensed that they came and stood over
me, looking down. I moved vaguely and
mumbled thickly, as if in drunken dreams.

Yasmeena laughed.

"No fear. He will know nothing before
dawn. Yuthla could split and fall into Yogh
without breaking his sottish dreams. The
fool! This night he would have been lord
of the world, for I would have made him
lord of the Queen of the world — for one

night. But the lion changes not his mane,
nor the barbarian his brutishness.”

"Why not put him to the torture?”
grunted Gotrah.

“Because I want a man, not a broken
travesty. Besides, his is a spirit not to be
conquered by fire or steel. No. I am Yas-
meena and I wUl make him love me before
I feed him to the vultures. Have you placed
the Kothan Altha among the Virgins of
the Moon?”

"Aye, Queen of the dusky stars. A
month and a half from this night she
dances the dance of the Moon with the
other wenches.”

“Good. Keep them guarded day and
night. If this tiger learns of our plans
for his sweetheart, chains and bolts will
not hold him.”

“A hundred and fifty men guard the
virgins,” answered Gotrah. “Not even the
Ironhand could prevail against them."

“It is well. Now to this other matter.
Have you the parchment?”

“Aye.”

“Then I will sign it. Give me the
stylus.”

I heard the crackle of papyrus and the
scratch of a keen point, and then the Queen
said:

"Take it now, and lay it on the altar in
the usual place. As I promise in the writ-
ing, I will appear in the flesh tomorrow
night to my faithful subjects and wor-
shippers, the blue pigs of Akka. Ha! ha!
ha! I never fail to be amused at the
animal-like awe on their stupid counte-
nances when I emerge from the shadows
of the golden screen, and spread my arms
above them in blessing. "What fools they
are, not in all these ages, to have dis-
covered the secret door and the shaft that
leads from their temple to this chamber.”

"Not so strange,” grunted Gotrah.
"None but the priest ever comes into the
temple except by special summons, and he
is far too superstitious to go meddling be-

108

WEIRD TALES

hind the screen. Anyway, there is no sign
to mark the secret door from without.”

"Very well,” answered Yasmeena.
"Go.”

I HEARD Gotrah fumbling at some-
thing, then a slight grating sound.
Consumed by curiosity, I dared open one
eye a slit, in time to glimpse Gotrah dis-
appearing through a black opening that
gaped in the middle of the stone floor,
and which closed after him. I quickly
shut my eye again and lay still, listening
to Yasmeena’s quick pantherish tread back
and forth across the floor.

Once she came and stood over me. I
felt her burning gaze and heard her curse
beneath her breath. Then she struck me
viciously across the face with some kind of
jeweled ornament that tore my skin and
started a trickle of blood. But I lay with-
out twitching a muscle, and presently she
turned and left the chamber, muttering.

As the door closed behind her I rose
quickly, scanning the floor for some sign
of the opening through which Gotrah had
gone. A furry rug had been drawn aside
from the center of the floor, but in the
polished black stone I searched in vain for
a crevice to denote the hidden trap. I
momentarily expected the return of Yas-
meena, and my heart pounded within me.
Suddenly, under my very hand, a section
of the floor detached itself and began to
move upward. A pantherish bound carried
me behind a tapestried couch, where I
crouched, watching the trap rise upward.
The narrow head of Gotrah appeared, then
his winged shoulders and body.

He climbed up into the chamber, and as
he turned to lower the lifted trap, I left
the floor with a cat-like leap that carried
me over the couch and full on his shoul-
ders.

He went down under my weight, and
my gripping fingers crushed the yell in his

throat. With a convulsive heave he twisted
under me, and stark horror flooded his face
as he glared up at me. He was down on
the cushioned stone, pinned under my iron
bulk. He clawed for the dagger at his
girdle, but my knee pinned it down. And
crouching on him, I glutted my mad hate
for his cursed race. I strangled him slowly,
gloatingly, avidly watching his features
contort and his eyes glaze. He must have
been dead for some minutes before I loosed
my hold.

Rising, I gazed through the open trap.
The light from the torches of the chamber
shone down a narrow shaft, into which
was cut a series of narrow steps, that
evidently led down into the bowels of the
rock Yuthla. From the conversation I had
heard, it must lead to the temple of the
Akkis, in the town below. Surely I would
find Akka no harder to escape from than
Yugga. Yet I hesitated, my heart torn
at the thought of leaving Altha alone in
Yugga. But there was no other way. I
did not know in what part of that devil-
city she was imprisoned, and I remembered
what Gotrah had said of the great band of
warriors guarding her and the other
virgins.

Virgins of the Moon! Cold sweat broke
out on me as the full significance of the
phrase became apparent. Just what the
festival of the Moon was I did not fully
know, but I had heard hints and scattered
comments among the Yaga women, and I
knew it was a beastly saturnalia, in which
the full frenzy of erotic ecstasy was reached
in the dying gasps of the wretches sacri-
ficed to the only god the winged people
recognized — their own inhuman lust.

The thought of Altha being subjected to
such a fate drove me into a berserk frenzy,
and steeled my resolution. There was but
one chance — ^to escape myself, and try to
reach Koth and bring back enough men to
attempt a rescue. My heart sank as I con-

ALMURIC

109

templated the difficulties in the way, but
there was nothing else to be done.

T IFTING Gotrah’s limp body I dragged
it out of the chamber through a
door different from that through which
Yasmeena had gone; and traversing a cor-
ridor without meeting anyone, I concealed
the corpse behind some tapestries. I was
certain that it would be found, but perhaps
not until I had a good start. Perhaps its
presence in another room than the chamber
of the trap might divert suspicion from
my actual means of escape, and lead Yas-
meena to think that I was merely hiding
somewhere in Yugga.

But I was crowding my luck. I could
not long hope to avoid detection if I
lingered. Returning to the chamber, I
entered the shaft, lowering the trap above
me. It was pitch-dark, then, but my grop-
ing fingers found the catch that worked the
trap, and I felt that I could return if I
found my way blocked below. Down those
inky stairs I groped, with an uneasy feeling
that I might fall into some pit or meet
with some grisly denizen of the imder-
world. But nothing occurred, and at last
the steps ceased and I groped my way
along a short corridor that ended at a
blank wall. My fingers encountered a
metal catch, and I shot the bolt, feeling a
section of the wall revolving under my
hands. I was dazzled by a dim yet lurid
light, and blinking, gazed out with some
trepidation.

I was looking into a lofty chamber that
was undoubtedly a shrine. My view was
limited by a large screen of carved gold
directly in front of me, the edges of which
flamed dully in the weird light.

Gliding from the secret door, I peered
around the screen. I saw a broad room,
made with the same stern simplicity and
awesome massiveness that characterized
Almuric architecture. It was a temple, the
first I had encountered on Almuric. The

ceiling was lost in the brooding shadows;
the walls were black, dully gleaming, and
unadorned. The shrine was empty except
for a block of ebon stone, evidently an
altar, on which blazed the lurid flame I had
noted, and which seemed to emanate from
a great somber jewel set upon the altar.
I noticed darkly stained channels on the
sides of that altar, and on the dusky stone
lay a roll of white parchment — Yasmeena’s
word to her worshippers. I had stumbled
into the Akka holy of holies — uncovered
the very root and base on which the whole
structure of Akka theology was based: the
supernatural appearances of revelations
from the goddess, and the appearance of
the goddess herself in the temple. Strange
that a whole religion should be based on
the ignorance of the devotees concerning
a subterranean stair! Stranger still, to an
Earthly mind, that only the lowest form of
humanity on Almuric should possess a
systematic and ritualistic religion, which
Earth people regard as sure token of the
highest races!

But the cult of the Akkas was dark and
weird. The whole atmosphere of the
shrine was one of mystery and brooding
horror. I could imagine the awe of the
blue worshippers to see the winged goddess
emerging from behind the golden screen,
like a deity incarnated from cosmic empti-
ness.

Closing the door behind me, I glided
stealthily across the temple. Just within
the door a stocky blue man in a fantastic
robe lay snoring lustily on the naked stone.
Presumably he had slept tranquilly through
Gotrah’s ghostly visit. I stepped over him
as gingerly as a cat treading wet earth,
Gotrah’s dagger in my hand, but he did
not awaken. An instant later I stood out-
side, breathing deep of the river-laden
night air.

The temple lay in the shadow of the
great cliffs. There was no moon, only the
myriad millions of stars that glimmer in

110

WEIRD TALES

the skies of Almuric. I saw no lights any-
where in the village, no movement. The
sluggish Akkis slept soundly.

Stealthily as a phantom I stole through
the narrow streets, hugging close to the
sides of the squat stone huts. I saw no
human until I reached the wall. The
drawbridge that spanned the river was
drawn up, and just within the gate sat a
blue man, nodding over his spear. The
senses of the Akkis were dull as those of
any beasts of burden. I could have knifed
the drowsy watchman where he sat, but I
saw no need of useless murder. He did
not hear me, though I passed within forty
feet of him. Silently I glided over the
wall, and silently I slipped into the water.

Striking out strongly, I forged across the
easy current, and reached the farther bank.
There I paused only long enough to drink
deep of the cold river water; then I struck
out across the shadowed desert at a swing-
ing trot that eats up miles — the gait witli
which the Apaches of my native Southwest
can wear out a horse.

In the darkness before dawn I came to
the banks of the Purple River, skirting
wide to avoid the watch-tower which jutted
dimly against the star-flecked sky. As I
crouched on the steep bank and gazed down
into the rushing swirling current, my heart
sank. I knew that, in my fatigued condi-
tion, it was madness to plunge into that
maelstrom. The strongest swimmer that
either Earth or Almuric ever bred had been
helpless among those eddies and whirl-
pools. There was but one thing to be
done — try to reach the Bridge of Rocks
before dawn broke, and take the desperate
chance of slipping across under the eyes
of the watchers. Tliat, too, was madness,
but I had no choice.

But dawn began to whiten the desert
before I was within a thousand yards of
the Bridge. And looking at the tower,
which seemed to swim slowly into clearer
outline, etched against the dim sky, I saw

a shape soar up from the turrets and wing
its way toward me. I had been discovered.
Instantly a desperate plan occurred to me.
I began to stagger erratically, ran a few
paces, and sank down in the sand near the
river bank. I heard the beat of wings
above me as the suspicious harpy circled;
then I knew he was dropping earthward.
He must have been on solitary sentry duty,
and had come to investigate the matter of
a lone wanderer, without waking his mates.

Watching through slitted lids, I saw him
strike the earth near by, and walk about
me suspiciously, simitar in hand. At last
he pushed me with his foot, as if to find
if I lived. Instantly my arm hooked about
his legs, bringing him down on top of me.
A single cry burst from his lips, half stifled
as my fingers found his throat; then in a
great heaving and fluttering of wings and
lashing of limbs, I heaved him over and
under me. His simitar was useless at such
close quarters. I twisted his arm until his
numbed fingers slipped from the hilt; then
I choked him into submission. Before he
regained his full faculties, I bound his
wrists in front of him with his girdle,
dragged him to his feet, and perched my-
self astride his back, my legs locked about
his torso. My left arm was hooked about
his neck, my right hand pricked his hide
with Gotrah’s dagger.

In a few low words I told him what he
must do, if he wished to live. It was not
the nature of a Yaga to sacrifice himself,
even for the welfare of his race. Through
the rose-pink glow of dawn we soared into
the sky, swept over the rushing Purple
River, and vanished from the sight of the
land of Yagg, into the blue mazes of the
northwest.

T DROVE that winged devil unmerci-

fully. Not until sunset did I allow him
to drop earthward. Then I bound his feet
and wings so he could not escape, and

ALMURIC

111

gathered fruit and nuts for our meal. I
fed him as well as I fed myself. He
needed strength for the flight. That night
the beasts of prey roared perilously close
to us, and my captive turned ashy with
fright, for we had no way of making a
protecting fire, but none attacked us. We
had left the forest of the Purple River
far, far behind, and were among the grass-
lands. I was taking the most direct route
to Koth, led by the unerring instinct of the
wild. I continually scanned the skies be-
hind me for some sign of pursuit, but no
winged shapes darkened the southern
horizon.

TT WAS on the fourth day that I spied
a dark moving mass in the plains below,
which I believed was an army of men
marching. I ordered the Yaga to fly over
them. I knew that I had reached the
vicinity of the wide territory dominated
by the city of Koth, and there was a chance
that these might be men of Koth. If so,
they were in force, for as we approached
I saw there were several thousand men,
marching in some order.

So intense was my interest that it almost
proved my undoing. During the day I
left the Yaga’s legs unbound, as he swore
that he could not fly otherwise, but I kept
his wrists bound. In my engrossment I
did not notice him furtively gnawing at the
thong. My dagger was in its sheath, since
he had shown no recent sign of rebellion.
My first intimation of revolt was when he
wheeled suddenly sidewise, so that I
lurched and almost lost my grip on him.
His long arm curled about my torso and
tore at my girdle, and the next instant my
own dagger gleamed in his hand.

There ensued one of the most desperate
struggles in which I have ever participated.
My near fall had swung me around, so
that instead of being on his back, I was
in front of him, maintaining my position
only by one hand clutching his hair, and

one knee crooked about his leg. My other
hand was locked on his dagger wrist, and
there we tore and twisted, a thousand feet
in the air, he to break away and let me
fall to my death, or to drive home the
dagger in my breast, I to maintain my grip
and fend off the gleaming blade.

On the ground my superior weight and
strength would quickly have settled the
issue, but in the air he had the advantage.
His free hand beat and tore at my
face, while his unimprisoned knee drove
viciously again and again for my groin. I
hung grimly on, taking the punishment
without flinching, seeing that our struggles
were dragging us lower and lower toward
the earth.

Realizing this, he made a final desperate
effort. Shifting the dagger to his free
hand, he stabbed furiously at my throat.
At the same instant I gave his head a
terrific downward wrench. The impetus
of both our exertions whirled us down and
over, and his stroke, thrown out of line
by our erratic convulsion, missed its mark
and sheathed the dagger in his own thigh.
A terrible cry burst from his lips, his grasp
went limp as he half fainted from the pain
and shock, and we rushed plummet-like
earthward. I strove to turn him beneath
me, and even as I did, we struck the earth
with a terrific concussion.

From that impact I reeled up dizzily.
The Yaga did not move; his body had
cushioned mine, and half the bones in his
frame must have been splintered.

A clamor of voices rang on my ears, and
turning, I saw a horde of hairy figures
rushing toward me. I heard my own name
bellowed by a thousand tongues. I had
found the men of Koth.

A hairy giant was alternately pumping
my hand and beating me on the back with
blows that would have staggered a horse,
while bellowing: "Ironhand! By Thak’s
jawbones, Ironhand! Grip my hand, old
war-dog! Hell’s thunders, I’ve known no

112

WEIRD TALES

such joyful hour since the day I broke old
Khush of Tanga’s back!”

There was old Khossuth Skullsplitter,
somber as ever, Thab the Swift, Gutchluk
Tigerwrath — nearly all the mighty men of
Koth. And the way they smote my back
and roared their welcome warmed my
heart as it was never warmed on Earth, for
I knew there was no room for insincerity
in their great simple hearts.

"Where have you been, Ironhand?” ex-
claimed Thab the Swift. "We found your
broken carbine out on the plains, and a
Yaga lying near it with his skull smashed;
so we concluded that you had been done
away with by those winged devils. But
we never found your body — and now you
come tumbling through the skies locked in
combat with another flying fiend! Say,
have you been to Yugga?” He laughed as
a man laughs when he speaks a jest.

"Aye, to Yugga, on the rock Yuthla, by
the river Yogh, in the land of Yagg,” I
answered. "Where is Zal the Thrower?”

"He guards the city with the thousand
we left behind,” answered Khossuth.

"His daughter languishes in the Black
City,” I said. "On the night of the full
moon, Altha, Zal’s daughter, dies with five
hundred other girls of the Guras — unless
we prevent it.”

A MURMUR of wrath and horror
swept along the ranks. I glanced
over the savage array. There were a good
four thousand of them; no bows were in
evidence, but each man bore his carbine.
That meant war, and their numbers proved
it was no minor raid.

"Where are you going?” I asked.

"The men of Khor move against us,
five thousand strong,” answered Khossuth.
"It is the death grapple of the tribes. We
march to meet them afar off from our
walls, and spare our women the horrors of
the war.”

"Forget the men of Khor!” I cried pas-

sionately. "You would spare the feelings
of your women — ^yet thousands of your
women suffer the tortures of the damned
on the ebon rock of Yuthla! Follow me!
I will lead you to the stronghold of the
devils who have harried Almuric for a
thousand ages!”

"How many warriors?” asked Khossuth
uncertainly.

"Twenty thousand.”

A groan rose from the listeners.

"What could our handful do against
that horde?”

'Til show you!” I exclaimed. "I’ll lead
you into the heart of their citadel!”

"Hai!” roared Ghor the Bear, brandish-
ing his broadsword, always quick to take
fire from my suggestions. "That’s the
word! Come on, sir brothers! Follow Iron-
hand! He’ll show us the way!”

"But what of the men of Khor?” ex-
postulated Khossuth. "They are marching
to attack us. We must meet them.”

Ghor grunted explosively as the truth
of this assertion came home to him, and
all eyes turned toward me.

"Leave them to me,” I proposed des-
perately. "Let me talk with them ”

"They’ll hack off your head before you
can open your mouth,” grunted Khossuth.

'"That’s right,” admitted Ghor. "We’ve
been fighting the men of Khor for fifty
thousand years. Don’t trust them, com-
rade.”

"I’ll take the chance,” I answered.

"The chance you shall have, then,” said
Gutchluk grimly. "For there they come!”
In the distance we saw a dark moving
mass.

"Carbines ready!” barked old Khossuth,
his cold eyes gleaming. "Loosen your
blades, and follow me.”

"Will you join battle tonight?” I asked.

He glanced at the sun. "No. We’ll
march to meet them, and pitch camp just
out of gunshot. Then with dawn we’ll
rush them and cut their throats.”

ALMURIC

113

"They’ll have the same idea,” explained
Thab. "Oh, it will be great fun!”

"And while you revel in senseless blood-
shed,” I answered bitterly, "your daughters
and theirs will be screaming vainly under
the tortures of the winged people over the
river Yogh. Fools! Oh, you fools!”

"But what can we do?” expostulated
Gutchluk.

"Follow me!” I yelled passionately.
"We’ll march to meet them, and I’ll go
on to them alone.”

I wheeled and strode across the plain,
and the hairy men of Koth fell in behind
me, with many head-shakes and mutter-
ings. I saw the oncoming mass, first as
a mingled blur; then the details stood out
— hairy bodies, fierce faces, gleaming
weapons — but I swung on heedlessly. I
knew neither fear nor caution; my whole
being seemed on fire with the urgency of
my need and desire.

Several hundred yards separated the two
hosts when I dashed down my single
weapon — the Yaga dagger — and shaking
off Ghor’s protesting hands, advanced
alone and unarmed, my hands in the air,
palms toward the enemy.

These had halted, drawn up ready for
action. ’The unusualness of my actions and
appearance puzzled them. I momentarily
expected the crack of a carbine, but noth-
ing happened until I was within a few
yards of the foremost group, the mightiest
men clustered about a tall figure that was
their chief — old Bragi, Khossuth had told
me. I had heard of him, a hard, cruel
man, moody and fanatical in his hatreds.

"Stand!” he shouted, lifting his sword.
"What trick is this? Who are you who
comes with empty hands in the teeth of
war?”

"I am Esau Ironhand, of the tribe of
Koth,” I answered. "I would parley with
you.”

"What madman is this?” growled Bragi.
"Than — a bullet through the head."

But the man called Than, who had been
staring eagerly at me, gave a shout instead
and threw down his carbine.

"Not if I live!” he exclaimed, advancing
toward me his arms outstretched. "By
Thak, it is he! Do you not remember me,
’Than Swordswinger, whose life you saved
in the Hills?”

He lifted his chin to display a great scar
on his corded neck.

"You are he who fought the sabertooth!
I had not dreamed you survived those
awful wounds.”

"We men of Khor are hard to kill!” he
laughed joyously, throwing his arms about
me in a bear-like embrace. "What are
you doing among the dogs of Koth? You
should be fighting with us!”

"If I have my way there will be no
fighting,” I answered. "I wish only to
talk with your chiefs and warriors. ’ITiere
is nothing out of the way about that.”

"True!” agreed ’Than Swordswinger
"Bragi, you will not refuse him this?”

Bragi growled in his beard, glaring
at me.

"Let your warriors advance to that spot.”
I indicated the place I meant. "Khossuth’s
men will come up on the other side. There
both hordes will listen to what I have to
say. Then, if no agreement can be reached,
each side shall withdraw five hundred
yards and after that follow its own initia-
tive.”

"You are mad!” Old Bragi jerked his
beard with a shaking hand of rage. "It
is treachery. Back to your kennel, dog!”

"I am your hostage,” I answered. "I
am unarmed. I will not move out of your
sword reach. If there is treachery, strike
me down on the spot.”

"But why?”

"I have been captive among the Yagas!”
I exclaimed. "I have come to tell the
Guras what things occur in the land of
Yagg!”

"The Yagas took my daughter!” ex-

114

WEIRD TALES

claimed a warrior, pushing through the
ranks. "Did you see her in Yagg.^”
"They took my sister” — "And my young
bride” — "And my niece!” shouts rose in
chorus, as men swarmed about me, for-
getful of their enemies, shaking me in the
intensity of their feeling.

"Back, you fools!” roared Bragi, smiting
with the flat of his sword. "Will you
break your ranks and let the Kothans cut
you down? Do you not see it is a trick?”

"It is no trick!” I cried. "Only listen
to me, in God’s name!”

They swept away Bragi’s protests. There
was a milling and stamping, during which
only a kindly Providence kept the nerve-
taut Kothans from pouring a volley into
the surging mass of their enemies, and
presently a sort of order was evolved. A
shouted conference finally resulted in ap-
proximately the position I had asked for —
a semicircle of Khorans over against a
similar formation composed of Kothans.
The close proximity almost caused the
tribal wrath to boil over. Jaws jutted, eyes
blazed, hairy hands clutched convulsively
at carbine stocks. Like wild dogs those
wild men glared at each other, and I
hastened to begin my say,

I WAS never much of a talker, and as
I strode between those hostile hordes
I felt my fire die out in cold ague of help-
lessness. A million ages of traditional
war and feud rose up to confound me.
One man against the accumulated ideas,
inhibitions, and customs of a whole world,
built up through countless millenniums —
the thought crushed and paralyzed me.
Then blind rage swept me at the memory
of the horrors of Yugga, and the fire blazed
up again and enveloped the world and
made it small, and on the wings of that
conflagration I was borne to heights of
which I had never dreamed.

No need for fiery oratory to tell the tale
I had to tell. I told it in the plainest.

bluntest language possible, and the knowl-
edge and feeling that lay behind the tell-
ing made those naked words pulse, and
burn like acid.

I told of the hell that was Yugga. I
told of young girls dying beneath the
excesses of black demons — of women
lashed to gory ribbons, mangled on the
wheel, sundered on the rack, flayed alive,
dismembered alive — of the torments that
left the body unharmed, but sucked the
mind empty of reason and left the victim
a blind, mowing imbecile. I told them —
oh God, I cannot repeat all I told them, at
the memory of which I am even now
sickened almost unto death.

Before I had finished, men were bel-
lowing and beating their breasts with theii
clenched fists, and weeping in agony ot
grief and fury.

I lashed them with a last whip of scor-
pions. "These are your women, your own
flesh and blood, who scream on the racks
of Yugga! You call yourselves men — you
strut and boast and swagger, while these
winged devils mock you. Men! Ha!” 1
laughed as a wolf barks, from the depths
of my bitter rage and agony. "Men! Go
home and don the skirts of women!”

A terrible yell arose. Clenched fists
were brandished, bloodshot eyes flamed
at me, hairy throats bayed their anguished
fury. "You lie, you dog! Damn you, you
lie! We are men! Lead us against these
devils or we will rend you!”

"If you follow me,” I yelled, "few ot
you will return. You will suffer and you
will die in hordes. But if you had seen
what I have seen, you would not wish to
live. Soon approaches the time when the
Yagas will clean their house. They are
weary of their slaves. 'They will destroy
those they have, and fare forth into the
world for more. I have told you of the
destruction of Thugra. So it will be with
Khor; so it will be with Koth — when
winged devils swoop out of the night.

ALMURIC

Follow me to Yugga — 1 will show you the
way. If you are men, follow me!”

Blood burst from my lips in the inten-
sity of my appeal, and as I reeled back,
in a state of complete collapse from over-
wrought nerves and strain, Ghor caught
me in his mighty arms.

Khossuth rose like a gaunt ghost. His
ghostly voice soared out across the trunult.

"I will follow Esau Ironliand to Yugga,
if the men of Khor will agree to a truce
until our return. What is your answer,
Bragi?”

"No!” roared Bragi. "There can be no
peace between Khor and Koth. The women
in Yugga are lost. Who can war against
demons? Up, men, back to your place!
No man can twist me with mad words to
forget old hates.”

He lifted his sword, and Than Sword-
swinger, tears of grief and fury running
down his face, jerked out his poniard and
drove it to the hilt in the heart of his
king. Wheeling to the bewildered horde,
brandishing the bloody dagger, his body
shaken with sobs of frenzy, he yelled:

“So die all who would make us traitors
to our own women! Draw your swords,
all men of Khor who will follow me to
Yugga!”

Five thousand swords flamed in the sun,
and a deep-throated thunderous roar shook
the very sky. Then wheeling to me, his
eyes coals of madness:

"Lead us to Yugga, Esau Ironhand!"
cried Than Swordswinger. "Lead us to
Yagg, or lead us to Hell! We will stain
the waters of Yogh with blood, and the
Yagas will speak of us witli shudders for
ten thousand times a thousand years!”

Again the clangor of swords and the
roar of frenzied men maddened the sky.

R unners were sent to the cities, to
give word of what went forward.
Southward we marched, four thousand men

of Koth, five thousand of Khor. W«
moved in separate columns, for I deemed
it wise to keep the tribes apart until the
sight of their oppressors should again
drown tribal feelings.

Our pace was much swifter than that
of an equal body of Earth soldiers. We
had no supply trains. We lived off the
land through which we passed. Each man
bore his own armament — carbine, sword,
dagger, canteen, and ammunition pouch.
But I chafed at every mile. Sailing
through the air on the back of a captive
Yaga had spoiled me for marching. It
took us days to cover ground the flying
men had passed over In hours. Yet we
progressed, and some three weeks from
the time we began the march, we entered
the forest beyond which lay the Purple
River and the desert that borders the land
of Yagg.

We had seen no Yagas, but we went
cautiously now. Leaving the bulk of our
force encamped deep in the forest, I went
forward with thirty men, timing our march
so that we reached the bank of the Purple
River a short time after midnight, just
before the setting of the moon. My pur-
pose was to find a way to prevent the tower
guard from carrying the news of our com-
ing to Yugga, so that we might cross the
desert without being attacked in the open,
where the numbers and tactics of the Yagas
would weigh most heavily against us.

Khossuth suggested that we lie in wait
among the trees along the bank, and pick
the watchers off at long range at dawn,
but this I knew to be impossible. There
was no cover along the water’s edge, and
the river lay between. The men in
the tower were out of our range. We
might creep near enough to pick off one or
two, but it was imperative that all should
perish, since the escape of one would be
enough to ruin our plans.

So we stole through the woods until we
reached a p )int a mile upstream, opposite

116

WEIRD TALES

a jutting tongue of rock, toward which, I
believed, a current set in from the center
of the stream. There we placed in the
water a heavy, strong catamaran we had
constructed, with a long powerful rope.
I got upon the craft with four of the best
marksmen of the combined horde — Thab
the Swift, Skel the Hawk, and two warriors
of Khor. Each of us bore two carbines,
strapped to our backs.

We bent to work with crude oars,
though our efforts seemed ludicrously futile
in the teeth of that flood. But the raft
was long enough and heavy enough not to
be spun by every whirlpool we crossed,
and by dint of herculean effort we worked
out toward the middle of the stream. The
men on shore paid out the rope, and it
acted as a sort of brace, swinging us
around in a wide arc that would have
eventually brought us back to the bank
we had left, had not the current we hoped
for suddenly caught us and hurled us at
dizzy speed toward the projecting tongue
of rock. The raft reeled and pitched,
driving its nose under repeatedly, until
sometimes we were fully submerged. But
our ammunition was waterproof, and we
had lashed ourselves to the logs; so we
hung on like drowned rats, until our craft
was dashed against the rocky point.

It hung there for a breathless instant, in
which time it was touch and go. We
slashed ourselves loose, jumped into the
water which swirled arm-pit deep about
us, and fought our way along the point,
clinging tooth and nail to every niche or
projection, while the foaming current
threatened momentarily to tear us away
and send us after our raft which had slid
off the ledge and was dancing away down
the river.

We did make it, though, and hauled
ourselves up on the shore at last, half dead
from buffeting and exhaustion. But we
could not stop to rest, for the most deli-
cate part of our scheme was before us.

It was necessary that we should not be
discovered before dawn gave us light
enough to see the sights of our carbines,
for the best marksman in the world is
erratic by starlight. But I trusted to the
chance that the Yagas would be watching
the river, and paying scant heed to the
desert behind them.

So in the darkness that precedes dawn,
we stole around in a wide half-circle, and
the first hint of light found us lying in a
depression we had scraped in the sand not
over four hundred yards to the south of
the tower.

It was tense waiting, while the dawn
lifted slowly over the land, and objects
became more and more distinct. The roar
of the water over the Bridge of Rocks
reached us plainly, and at last we were
aware of another sound. The clash of
steel reached us faintly through the watery
tumult. Ghor and others were advancing
to the river bank, according to my instruc-
tions. We could not see any Yagas on
the tower; only hints of movement along
the turrets. But suddenly one whirled up
into the morning sky and started south at
headlong speed. Skel’s carbine cracked
and the winged man, with a loud cry,
pitched sideways and tumbled to earth.

There followed an instant of silence;
then five winged shapes darted into the air,
soaring high. The Yagas sensed what was
occurring, and were chancing all on a des-
perate rush, hoping that at least one might
get through. We all fired, but I scored a
complete miss, and Thab only slightly
wounded his man. But the others brought
down the the man I had missed, while
Thab’s second shot dropped the wounded
Yaga. We reloaded hastily, but no more
came from the tower. Six men watched
there, Yasmeena had said. She had spoken
the truth.

We cast the bodies into the river. I
crossed the Bridge of Rocks, leaping
from boulder to boulder, and told Ghot

ALMURIC

117

to take his men back into the forest, and
to bring up the host. They were to camp
just within the fringe of woods, out of
sight from the sky. I did not intend t^
start across the desert until nightfall.

Then I returned to the tower and at-
tempted to gain entrance, but found no
doors, only a few small barred windows.
The Yagas had entered it from the top.
It was too tall and smooth to be climbed,
so we did the only thing left to do. We
dug pits in the sand and covered them with
branches, over which we scattered dust.
In these pits we concealed our best marks-
men, who lay all day, patiently scanning
the sky. Only one Yaga came winging
across the desert. No human was in sight,
and he was not suspicious imtil he poised
directly over the tower. Then, when he
saw no watchmen, he became alarmed, but
before he could race away, the reports of
half a dozen carbines brought him tum-
bling to the earth in a whirl of limbs and
wings.

As the sun sank, we brought the warriors
across the Bridge of Rocks, an accomplish-
ment which required some time. But at
last they all stood on the Yaga side of the
river, and with our canteens well filled,
we started at quick pace across the narrow
desert. Before dawn we were within
striking distance of the river.

Having crossed the desert under cover
of darkness, I was not surprised that we
were able to approach the river without
being discovered. If any had been watch-
ing from the citadel, alert for anything
suspicious, they would have discerned our
dark mass moving across the sands under
the dim starlight. But I knew that in
Yugga no such watch was ever kept, secure
as the winged people felt in the protection
of the Purple River, of the watchmen in
the tower, and of the fact that for cen-
turies no Gura raid had dared the bloody
doom of former invaders. Nights were
spent in frenzied debauchery, followed by

sodden sleep. As for the men of Akka,
those slow-witted drudges were too habitu-
ally drowsy to constitute much menace
against our approach, though I knew that
once roused they would fight like animals.

So three hundred yards from the river
we halted, and eight thousand men under
Khossuth took cover in the irrigation
ditches that traversed the fields of fruit.
The waving fronds of the squat trees like-
wise aided in their concealment. This was
done in almost complete silence. Far above
us towered the somber rock Yuthla. A
faint breeze sprang up, forerunner of
dawn. I led the remaining thousand war-
riors toward the river bank. Halting them
a short distance from it, I wriggled for-
ward on my belly until my hands were at
the water’s edge. I thanked the Fates that
had given me such men to lead. Where
civilized men would have floundered and
blundered; the Guras moved as easily and
noiselessly as stalking panthers.

Across from me rose the wall, sheer
from the steep bank, that guarded Akka.
It would be hard to climb in the teeth of
spears. At the first crack of dawn, the
bridge, which towered gauntly against the
stars, would be lowered so that Akkis
might go into the fields to work. But
before then the rising light would betray
our forces.

With a word to Ghor, who lay at my
side, I slid into the water and struck out
for the farther shore, he following. Reach-
ing a point directly below the bridge, we
hung in the water, clutching the slippery
wall, and looked about for some way of
climbing it. There the water, near the
bank, was almost as deep as in midstream.
At last Ghor found a crevice in the
masonry, wide enough to give him a grip
for his hands. Then bracing himself, he
held fast while I clambered on his shoul-
ders. Standing thus I managed to reach
the lower part of the lifted bridge, and
an instant later I drew myself up. The

118

WEIRD TALES

erected bridge closed the gap in the wall.
I had to clamber over the barrier. One
leg was across, when a figure sprang out
of the shadows, yelling a warning. The
watchman had not been as drowsy as I
had expected.

He leaped at me, the starlight glinting
on his spear. With a desperate twist of
my body I avoided the whistling blade,
though the effort almost toppled me from
the wall. My outthrown hand gripped his
lank hair as he fell against the coping with
the fury of his wasted thrust, and jerking
myself back into balance, I dealt him a
crushing buffet on the ear with my
clenched fist. He crumpled, and the next
instant I was over the wall.

Ghor was bellowing like a bull in the
river, mad to know what was taking place
above him, and in the dim light the Akkis
were swarming like bees out of their stony
hives. Leaning over the barrier I stretched
Ghor the shaft of the watchman’s spear,
and he came heaving and scrambling up
beside me. The Akkis had stared stupidly
for an instant; then realizing they were
being invaded, they rushed, howling
madly.

As Ghor sprang to meet them, I leaped
to the great windlass that controlled the
bridge. I heard the Bear’s thunderous war-
cry boom above the squalling of the Akkis,
the strident clash of steel and the crunch
of splintered bone. But I had no time to
look; it was taking all my strength to work
the windlass. I had seen five Akkis toil-
ing together at it; yet in the stress of the
moment I accomplished its lowering
single-handed, though sweat burst out on
my forehead and my muscles trembled with
the effort. But down it came, and the
farther end touched the other bank in time
to accommodate the feet of the warriors
who sprang up and rushed for it.

1 wheeled to aid Ghor, whose panting
gasps I still heard amidst the clamor of
the melee. I knew the din in the lower

town would soon rouse the Yagas and it
was imperative that we gain a foothold
in Akka before the shafts of the winged
men began to rain among us.

G hor was hard pressed when I turned
from the bridgehead. Half a dozen
corpses lay under his feet, and he wielded
his great sword with a berserk lustiness
that sheared through flesh and bone like
butter, but he was streaming blood, and
the Akkis were closing in on him.

I had no weapon but Gotrah’s dagger,
but I sprang into the fray and ripped a
sword from the sinking hand of one whose
heart my slim blade found. It was a
crude weapon, such as the Akkis forge, but
it had edge and weight, and swinging it
like a club, I wrought havoc among the
swarming blue men. Ghor greeted my
arrival with a gasping roar of pleasure,
and redoubled the fury of his tremendous
strokes, so that the dazed Akkis momen-
tarily gave back.

And in that fleeting interval, the first
of the Guras swarmed across the bridge.
In an instant fifty men had joined us. But
there the matter was deadlocked. Swarm
after swarm of blue men rushed from their
huts to fall on us with reckless fury. One
Gura was a match for three or four Akkis,
but they swamped us by numbers. They
crushed us back into the bridge mouth,
and strive as we could, we could not ad-
vance enough to clear the way for the
hundreds of warriors behind us who yelled
and struggled to come to sword-strokes
with the enemy. The Akkis pressed in
on us in a great crescent, almost crushing
us against the men behind us. They
lined the walls, yelling and screaming and
brandishing their weapons. There were
no bows or missiles among them; their
winged masters were careful to keep such
things out of their hands.

In the midst of the carnage dawn broke,
and the struggling hordes saw their ene-

ALMURIC

119

mies. Above us, I knew, the Yagas would
be stirring. Indeed I thought I could
already hear the thrash of wings above the
roar of battle, but I could not look up.
Breast to breast we were locked with the
heaving, grunting hordes, so closely there
was no room for sword-strokes. Their
teeth and filthy nails tore at us beast-like;
their repulsive body odor was in our nos-
trils. In the crush we writhed and cursed,
each man striving to free a hand to strike.

My flesh crawled in dread of the arrows
I knew must soon be raining from above,
and even with the thought the first volley
came like a whistling sheet of sleet. At
my side and behind me men cried out,
clutching at the feathered ends protruding
from their bodies. But then the men on
the bridge and on the farther bank, who
had held their fire for fear of hitting their
comrades in the uncertain light, began
loosing their carbines at the Akkis. At
that range their fire was devastating. The
first volley cleared the wall, and climbing
on the bridge rails the carbineers poured
a withering fusillade over our heads into
the close-massed horde that barred our way.
The result was appalling. Great gaps were
torn in the struggling mob, and the whole
horde staggered and tore apart. Unsup-
ported by the mass behind, the front ranks
caved in, and over their mangled bodies
we rushed into the narrow streets of Akka.

Opposition was not at an end. The
stocky blue men still fought back. Up and
down the streets sounded the clash of steel,
crack of shots, and yells of pain and fury.
But our greatest peril was from above.

The winged men were swarming out of
their citadel like hornets out of a nest.
Several hundred of them dropped swiftly
down into Akka, swords in their hands,
while others lined the rim of the cliff and
poured down showers of arrows. Now the
warriors hidden in the shrub-masked
ditches opened fire, and as that volley thun-
dered, a rain of mangled forms fell on the

flat roofs of Akka. The survivors wheeled
and raced back to cover as swiftly as their
wings could carry them.

But they were more deadly in defense
than in attack. From every casement, tower
and battlement above they rained their
arrows; a hail of death showered Akka,
striking down foe and serf alike. Guras
and Akkis took refuge in the stone-roofed
huts, where the battling continued in the
low-ceilinged chambers until the gutters
of Akka ran red. Four thousand Guras
battled four times their number of Akkis,
but the size, ferocity and superior weapons
of the apemen balanced the advantage of
numbers.

Across the river Khossuth’s carbineers
kept up an incessant fire at the towers of
Yugga, but with scant avail. The Yagas
kept well covered, and their arrows, arch-
ing down from the sky, had a greater range
and accuracy than the carbines of the Guras.
But for their position among the ditches,
Khossuth’s men would have been wiped
out in short order, and as it was, they suf-
fered terribly. They could not join us in
Akka; it would have been madness to try
to cross the bridge in the teeth of that fire.

Meanwhile, I ran straight for the temple
of Yasmeena, cutting down those who
stood in my way. I had discarded the
clumsy Akka sword for a fine blade
dropped by a slain Gura, and with this in
my hand I cut my way through a swarm
of blue spearmen who made a determined
stand before the temple. With me were
Ghor, Thab the Swift, Than Swordswinger
and a hundred other picked warriors.

A S THE last of our foes were trampled
under foot, I sprang up the black
stone steps to the massive door, where the
bizarre figure of the Akka priest barred my
way with shield and spear. I parried his
spear and feinted a thrust at his thigh. He
lowered the great gold-scrolled shield, and
before he could lift it again I slashed off

120

WEIRD TALES

his head, which rolled grinning down the
steps. I caught up the shield as I rushed
into the temple.

I rushed across the temple and tore aside
the golden screen. My men crowded in
behind me, panting, blood-stained, their
fierce faces lighted by the weird flame from
the altar jewel. Fumbling in my haste, I
foimd and worked the secret catch. The
door began to give, reluctantly. It was this
reluctance which fired my brain with sud-
den suspicion, as I remembered how easily
it had opened before. Even with the
thought I yelled, "Back!” and hurled my-
self backward as the door gaped suddenly.

Instantly my ears were deafened by an
awful roar, my eyes blinded by a terrible
flash. Something like a spurt of hell’s fire
passed so close by me it seared my hair in
passing. Only my recoil, which carried
me behind the opening door, saved me
from the torrent of liquid fire which
flooded the temple from the secret shaft.

There was a blind chaotic instant of
frenzy, shot through with awful screams.
Then through the din I heard Ghor bel-
lowing my name, and saw him stumbling
blindly through the whirling smoke, his
beard and bristling hair burned crisp. As
the lurid murk cleared somewhat, I saw the
remnants of my band — Ghor, Thab and a
few others who by quickness or luck had
escaped. 'Than Swordswinger had been
directly behind me, and was knocked out
of harm’s way when I leaped back. But
on the blackened floor of the temple lay
three-score shriveled forms, burned and
charred out of all human recognition. They
had been directly in the path of that de-
vouring sheet of flame as it rushed to dissi-
pate itself in the outer air.

The shaft seemed empty now. Fool to
think that Yasmeena would leave it un-
guarded, when she must have suspected
that I escaped by that route. On the edges
of the door and the jamb I found bits of
stuff like wax. Some mysterious element

had been sealed into the shaft which the
opening of the door ignited, sending it
toward the outer air in a rush of flame.

I knew the upper trap would be made
fast. I shouted for 'Thab to find and light
a torch, and for Ghor to procure a heavy
beam for a ram. Then, telling Than to
gather all the men he could find in the
streets and follow, I raced up the stair in
the blackness. As I thought, I found the
upper trap fastened — bolted above, I sus-
pected; and listening closely, I caught a
confused mumbling above my head, and
knew the chamber must be filled with
Yagas.

An erratic flame bobbing below me drew
my attention, and quickly Thab reached my
side with a torch. He was followed by
Ghor and a score of others, grunting under
the weight of a heavy log-like beam, torn
from some Akka hut. He reported that
fighting was still going on in the streets
and buildings, but that most of the Akka
males had been put to the sw^rd, and
others, with their women and children, had
leaped into the river and swum for the
south shore. He said some five hundred
swordsmen were thronging the temple.

"Then burst this trap above our heads,”
I exclaimed, "and follow me through. We
must win our way into the heart of the
hold, before the arrows of the Yagas on
the towers overwhelm Khossuth.”

It was difficult in that narrow shaft,
where only one man could stand on each
step, but gripping the heavy beam like a
ram, we swung it and dashed it against
the trap. The thunder of the blows filled
the shaft deafeningly, the jarring impact
stung our hands and quivered the wood,
but the trap held. Again — and again —
panting, grunting, thews cracking, we
swung the beam — and with a final terrific
drive of hard-braced knotty legs and iron
shoulders, the trap gave with a splintering
crash, and light flooded the shaft from
above.

ALMURIC

121

W ITH a wordless yell I heaved up
through the splinters of the trap, the
gold shield held above my head. A score
of swords descended on it, staggering me;
but desperately keeping my feet, I heaved
up through a veritable rain of shattering
blades, and burst into the chamber of
Yasmeena. With a yell the Yagas swarmed
on me, and I cast the bent and shattered
shield in their faces, and swimg my sword
in a wheel that flashed through breasts and
throats like a mowing blade through corn.
I should have died there, but from the
opening behind me crashed a dozen car-
bines, and the winged men went down in
heaps.

Then up into the chamber came Ghor
the Bear, bellowing and terrible, and after
him the killers of Khor and of Koth,
thirsting for blood.

That chamber was full of Yagas, and
so were the adjoining rooms and corridors.
But in a compact circle, back to back, we
held the shaft entrance, while scores of
warriors swarmed up the stair to join us,
widening and pushing out the rim of the
circle. In that comparatively small cham-
ber the din was deafening and terrifying — i
the clang of swords, the yelling, the butch-
er’s sound of flesh and bones parting be-
neath the chopping edge.

We quickly cleared the chamber, and
held the doors against attack. As more
and more men came up from below, we
advanced into the adjoining rooms, and
after perhaps a half-hour of desperate
fighting, we held a circle of chambers and
corridors, like a wheel of which the cham-
ber of the shaft was the axle, and more
and more Yagas were leaving the turrets
to take part in the hand-to-hand fighting.
There were some three thousand of us in
the upper chambers now, and no more
came up the shaft. I sent Thab to tell
Khossuth to bring his men across the
river.

1 believed that most of the Yagas had

left the turrets. They were massed thick
in the chambers and corridors ahead of us,
and were fighting like demons. I have
mentioned that their courage was not of
the type of the Guras’, but any race will
fight when a foe has invaded its last
stronghold, and these winged devils were
no weaklings.

For a time the battle was at a gasping
deadlock. We could advance no farther
in any direction, nor could tliey thrust us
back. The doorways through which we
slashed and thrust were heaped high with
bodies, both hairy and black. Our ammu-
nition was exhausted, and the Yagas could
use their bows to no advantage. It was
hand to hand and sword to sword, men
stumbling among the dead to come to
hand grips.

Then, just when it seemed that flesh
and blood could stand no more, a thun-
derous roar rose to the vaulted ceilings,
and up through the shaft and out through
the chambers poured streams of fresh,
eager warriors to take our places. Old
Khossuth and his men, maddened to frenzy
by the arrows that had been showering
upon them as they lay partly hidden in
the ditches, foamed like rabid dogs to
come to hand-grips and glut their fury.
Thab was not with them, and Khossuth
said he had been struck down by an arrow
in his leg, as he was following his king
across the bridge in that dash from the
ditches to the temple. There had been
few losses in that reckless rush, however;
as I had suspected, most of the Yagas had
entered the chambers, leaving only a few
archers on the towers.

Now began the most bloody and des-
perate melee I have ever witnessed. Under
the impact of the fresh forces, the weary
Yagas gave way, and the battle streamed
out through the halls and rooms. The chiefs
tried in vain to keep the maddened Guras
together. Struggling groups split off the
main body, men ran singly down twisting

122

WEIRD TALES

corridors. Tiroughout all the citadel thun-
dered the rush of trampling feet, shouts,
and din of steel.

Few shots were fired, few arrows
winged. It was hand to hand with a
vengeance. In the roofed chambers and
halls, the Yagas could not spread their
wings and dart down on their foes from
above. They were forced to stand on their
feet, meeting their ancient enemies on even
terms. It was out on the rooftops and the
open courts that our losses were greatest,
for in the open the winged men could
resort to their accustomed tactics.

But we avoided such places as much as
possible, and man to man, the Guras were
invincible. Oh, they died by scores, but
under their lashing swords the Yagas died
by hundreds. A thousand ages of cruelty
and oppression were being repaid, and red
was the payment. The sword was blind;
Yaga women as well as men fell beneath
it. But knowing the fiendishness of those
sleek black females, I could not pity them.

I was looking for Altha.

S laves there were, thousands of them,
dazed by the battle, cowering in terror,
too bewildered to realize its portent, or to
recognize their rescuers. Yet several times
I saw a woman cry out in sudden joy and
run forward to throw her arms about the
bull-neck of some hairy, panting swords-
man, as she recognized a brother, husband,
or father. In the midst of agony and
travail there was joy and reuniting, and
it warmed my heart to see it. Only the
little yellow slaves and the red women
aouched in terror, as fearful of these roar-
ing hairy giants as of their winged masters.
Hacking and slashing my way through
the knots of struggling warriors, I sought
for the chamber where were imprisoned
the virgins of the Moon. At last I caught
the shoulder of a Gura girl, cowering on
the floor to avoid chance blows of the men
battling above her, and shouted a question

in her ear. She understood and pointed,
unable to make herself heard above the

din. Catching her up under one arm, 1
slashed a path for us, and in a chamber
beyond I set her down, and she ran swiftly
down a corridor, crying for me to follow.
I raced after her, down that corridor, up a
winding stair, across a roof-garden where
Guras and Yagas fought, and finally she
halted in an open court. It was the high-
est point of the city, besides the minarets.
In the midst rose the dome of the Moon,
and at the foot of the dome she showed me
a chamber. The door was locked, but I
shattered it with blows of my sword, and
glared in. In the semi-darkness I saw the
gleam of white limbs huddled close to-
gether against the opposite wall. As my
eyes became accustomed to the dimness I
saw that some hundred and fifty girls were
cowering in terror against the wall. And
as I called Altha’s name, I heard a voice

cry, "Esau! Oh, Esau!” and a slim white
figure hurled itself across the chamber to
throw white arms about my neck and rain
passionate kisses on my bronzed features.
For an instant I crushed her close, return-
ing her kisses with hungry lips; then the
roar of battle outside roused me. Turning
I saw a swarm of Yagas, pressed close by
five hundred swords, being forced out of a
great doorway near by. Abandoning the
fray suddenly they took to flight, their as-
sailants flowing out into the court with
yells of triumph.

And then before me I heard a light
mocking laugh, and saw the lithe figure of
Yasmeena, Queen of Yagg.

"So you have returned, Ironhand?” Her
voice was like poisoned honey. "You have
returned with your slayers to break the
reign of the gods? Yet you have not con-
quered, oh fool.”

Without a word I drove at her, silently
and murderously, but she sprang lightly
into the air, avoiding my thrust. Her
laughter rose to an insane scream.

ALMURIC

123

"Fool!” she shrieked. "You have not
conquered! Did I not say I would perish
in the ruins of my kingdom? Dogs, you
are all dead men!”

Whirling in midair she rushed with ap
palling speed straight for the dome. The
Yagas seemed to sense her intention, for
they cried out in horror and protest, but
she did not pause. Lighting on the smooth
slope of the dome, keeping her perch by
the use of her wings, she turned, shook a
hand at us in mockery, and then, gripping
some bolt or handle set in the dome, braced
both her feet against the ivory slope and
pulled with all her strength.

A section of the dome gave way, cata-
pulting her into the air. The next instant
a huge misshapen bulk came rushing from
the opening. And as it rushed, the impact
of its body against the edges of the door
was like the crash of a thunderbolt. The
dome split in a hundred places from base
to pinnacle, and fell in with a thunderous
roar. Through a cloud of dust and debris
and falling stone the huge figure burst into
the open. A yell went up from the
watchers.

The thing that had emerged from the
dome was bigger than an elephant, and in
shape something like a gigantic slug, ex-
cept that it had a fringe of tentacles all
about its body. And from these writhing
tentacles crackled sparks and flashes of blue
flame. It spread its writhing arms, and at
their touch stone walls crashed to ruin and
masonry burst apart. It was brainless,
sightless — elemental force incorporated in
the lowest form of animation — power gone
mad and run amuck in a senseless fury of
destruction.

There was neither plan nor direction to
its plunges. It rushed erratically, literally
plowing through solid walls which buckled
and gave way, falling on it in showers
which did not seem to injure it. On all
sides men fled aghast.

"Get back through the shaft, all who

can!” I yelled. "Take the girls — get them
out first!” I was dragging the dazed crea-
tures from the prison chamber and thrust-
ing them into the arms of the nearest war-
riors, who carried them away. On all sides
of us the towers and minarets were crum-
bling and roaring down in ruin.

"Make ropes of the tapestries,” I yelled.
"Slide down the cliff! In God’s name,
hasten! This fiend will destroy the whole
city before it is done!”

"I’ve found a bunch of rope ladders,”
shouted a warrior. "'They’ll reach to the
water’s edge, but ”

"Then fasten them and send the women
down them,” I shrieked. "Better take the
chance of the river, then — here, Ghor,
take Altha!”

I threw her into the arms of the blood-
stained giant, and rushed toward the moun-
tain of destruction which was crashing
through the walls of Yugga.

O F THAT cataclysmic frenzy I have
only a confused memory, an impres-
sion of crashing walls, howling humans,
and that engine of doom roaring through
all, with a ghastly aurora playing about it,
as the electric power in its awful body
blasted its way through solid stone.

How many Yagas, warriors and women
slaves died in the falling castles is not to
be known. Some hundreds had escaped
down the shaft when falling roofs and
walls blocked that way, crushing scores
who were trying to reach it. Our warriors
worked frenziedly, and the silken ladders
were strung down the cliffs, some over the
town of Akka, some, in haste, over the
river, and down these the warriors carried
the slave-girls — Guras, red and yellow
girls alike.

After I had seen Ghor carry Altha away
I wheeled and ran straight toward that
electric horror. It was not intelligent, and
what I expected to accomplish I do not
know. But through the reeling walls and

124

WEIRD TALES

among the rocking towers that spilled down
showers of stone blocks I raced, until I
stood before the rearing horror. Blind and
brainless though it was, yet it possessed
some form of sensibility, because instantly,
as I hurled a heavy stone at it, its move-
ments ceased to be erratic. It charged
straight for me, casting splinted masonry
right and left, as foam is thrown by the
rush of an ox through a stream.

I ran fleetly from it, leading it away
from the screaming masses of humanity
that struggled and fled along the rim of
the cliff, and suddenly found myself on a
battlement on the edge of the cliff, with a
sheer drop of five hundred feet beneath me
to the river Yogh. Behind me came the
monster. As I turned desperately, it reared
up and plunged at me. In the middle of
its gigantic slug-like body I saw a dark
spot as big as my hand pulsing. I knew
that this must be the center of the being’s
life, and I sprang at it like a wounded
tiger, plunging my sword into that dark
spot.

Whether 1 reached it or not, I did not
know. Even as I leaped, the whole uni-
verse exploded in one burst of blinding
white flame and thunder, followed instantly
by the blackness of oblivion.

They say that at the instant my sword
sank into the body of the fire-monster, both
it and I were enveloped in a blinding blue
flame. There was a deafening report, like
a thunder-clap, that tore the creature asun-
der, and hurled its mangled form, with
my body, far out over the cliff, to fall five
hundred feet into the deep blue waters of
Yogh.

It was Thab who saved me from drown-
ing, leaping into the river despite his crip-
pled condition, to dive until he found and
dragged my senseless body from the water.

You will say, perhaps, that it is impos-
sible for a man to fall five hundred feet
into water and live. My only reply is that
I did it, and I live; though I doubt if there

is any man on Earth who could do it.

For a long time I was senseless, and for
longer I lay in delirium; for longer again,
I lay completely paralyzed, my disrupted
and numbed nerves slowly coming back
into life again.

I came to myself on a couch in Koth. 1
knew nothing of the long trek back through
the forests and across the plains from the
doomed city of Yugga. Of the nine thou-
sand men who marched to Yagg, only five
thousand returned, wounded, weary, blood-
stained, but triumphant. With them came
fifty thousand women, the freed slaves of
the vanquished Yagas. Those who were
neither Kothan nor Khoran were escorted
to their own cities — a thing unique in the
history of Almuric. The little yellow and
red women were given the freedom of
either city, and allowed to dwell there in
full freedom.

As for me, I have Altha — and she has
me. The glamor of her, akin to glory,
dazzled me with its brilliance, when first
I saw her bending over my couch after my
return from Yagg. Her features seemed
to glimmer and float above me; then they
coalesced into a vision of transcendent love-
liness, yet strangely familiar to me. Our
love will last forever, for it has been
annealed in the white-hot fires of a mutual
experience — of a savage ordeal and a great
suffering.

Now, for the first time, there is peace
between the cities of Khor and Koth, which
have sworn eternal friendship to each
other; and the only warfare is the unremit-
ting struggle waged against the ferocious
wild beasts and weird forms of animal life
that abounds in much of the planet. And
we two — I an Earthman born, and Altha,
a daughter of Almuric who possesses the
gentler instincts of an Earthwoman — we
hope to instill some of the culture of my
native planet into this erstwhile savage
people before we die and become as the
dust of my adopted planet, Almuric.

**The shovel had just touched wood when another owl-hoot convulsed the darkness.”

That ghastly cacchination told the diamond-thief that his quest
was fruitless — a graveyard tale

I T WAS well past eleven when Stan before the wheezy motor should die. It
Wimberley cranked the dilapidated would never do for his means of convey-
truck into life and sprang quickly to ance to fail him now. On this night he
the cab, to adjust spark and gasoline levers was going to reclaim the fortune which, he

125

126

WEIRD TALES

told himself for the ten-thousandth time,
was rightfully his.

For John Griffin was dead. Dead and
buried. And Wimberley was as sure as
anyone can be that Griffin had taken the
Slidell diamond to the grave with him; the
Slidell diamond that was as much Wimber-
ley ’s as Griffin’s.

It was curious about that diamond. Only
Wimberley knew that Griffin had it. The
latter had made a practise of carrying it in
a chamois bag, greasy with age, about his
neck. He had coated it with sealing-wax,
and frequently displayed it, telling every-
one that it was a pebble from a sacred
mountain which his grandmother had
given him. He wore it night and day, he
said, to protect him from evil, and he often
reiterated the statement that it must be
buried with him. Otherwise, he said, bad
luck would dog tne footsteps of the person
diwarting his desire.

People considered him a little touched —
on that point, at least — which was just
what Griffin desired. No one had ever
made the slightest attempt to filch away
the "holy relic."

No one, that is except Wimberley —
and Griffin was always watching him. A
thousand times Wimberley had pleaded
with Griffin to sell the diamond and divide
the proceeds. Griffin had always countered
that this was "not safe, yet.” Then he
would add; "In a couple of years, maybe.
It’ll keep."

Oh, yes, it would keep. It had kept for
twelve years when Griffin died, a dozen
years to the day after Old Man Slidell had
been killed in the wreck of his automobile.
"Wirn’oerley and Griffin had been together
when they stumbled upon the wreck. It
was Wimberley who noticed that the four-
carat diamond was in its accustomed place
on the dead man’s shirt-front, but it was
Griffin who reached forth his hand and
took it

"No use for the heirs to fight ov^r thus,"

he’d said witli a sly grin. "They’ll have
enough without it — and we know a couple
of fellows it would do more good — ^hey,
Wimberley?"

Wimberley ’s throat had constricted so
he couldn’t speak, but he had managed a
nod and a grimace, unaware that the greed
in his eyes had already answered for him.

Griffin had dropped the gem into his
pocket and the two rascals had hurriedly
gone away, leaving the wreck to be dis-
covered by others.

It had happened that the next comers
were a numerous party, with substantial
men among them, so that no one was ac-
cused, or even suspected, of having taken
the diamond. It was supposed that the
stone had been lost at the time of the
wreck, or that Old Man Slidell had pre-
viously hidden it so carefully that it could
not be found.

W ITHIN less than a week after their
illegal acquisition, Wimberley was
suggesting to Griffin that they turn the dia-
mond into money and divide the proceeds.

"It’ll be safe enough,” he argued.
"Why, nobody’s even looking for the
thing. We can go down to New Orleans
and get a good price for it there — ^not
what it’s worth, of course, but something
near it; enough to put us both on Easy
Street, with good liquor and good-looking
frails a-plenty, and no work or worry."

"Put us in the hoosegow, you mean —
you sap,” Griffin had retorted. "You poor
boob, don’t you know that every stone as
big as this one has a history, and that any-
one with enough money to buy it would
recognize it? Wait until this business cools
off!"

That sort of logic had sufficed for a
couple of months, for Wimberley was not
an utter fool. Then, to his dismay, he
found his confederate’s attitude changing.
Griffin no longer bothered to be logical.
He held the whip-hand now, and knew it.

THE LAUGH

127

It was too late for Wimbetley to accuse
him of the theft, and the former’s only
chance of profiting by their joint crime lay
in securing Griffin’s acquiescence to selling
cbe diamond.

There were times when Wimberley
thought that Griffin derived a malicious
pleasure from tantalizing him; at others,
he was quite sure that Griffin had fallen in
love with the bauble, or with the power
and potential aflluence which it embodied,
and that he had no intention of letting go
of it.

What made the situation so galling
was that Griffin was in comfortable cir-
cumstances, never having to worry about
his living, whereas Wimberley had to toil
for his daily bread and never had two good
suits of clothes at the same time in his life.

And all along Griffin displayed a dia-
bolical cleverness. Beyond his refusal to
set a date for disposing of the stone, he
had never crossed Wimberley. He never
snubbed him, publicly or otherwise, and at
least once a week he invited him to dinner.
After tlie meal was over and the two men
were alone, he would become loquacious.

"You’re a good fellow, Wimberley," he
would say smilingly, "but you’re lacking
in patience — in finesse. You want to rush
things too mudi. People like you are
their own worst enemies.”

Wimberley would realize savagely that
his guns had been spiked before he could
unlimber them; his half-hearted attempts
to convince Griffin that they ought to sell
the diamond were foredoomed to fail, and
before he knew it the conversation would
have drifted to other topics. He had at
last become almost resigned to this will-o'-
the-wispish sort of warfare in which he
never won and Griffin never lost.

Then, after the affair had been dragging
on so long that neither man could say how
many years it had been without counting
back, Wimberley was called out of town
by the last Illness of a relative. The rela-

tive had left him nothing, and Wimberley
had returned after two weeks to find
Griffin also dead and in his grave.

Nothing was being said about the dia-
mond (or "sacred pebble”), and Wimber
ley was too craven-clever to make inquiries
about it; he’d never been one to awaken
sleeping dogs. For the same reason, he
decided against visiting the cemetery; therc-
was no use in anything which might be in-
conveniently remembered later if some-
thing happened to go wrong.

It was necessary, of course, to act
quickly. Griffin had been buried but one
day, no rain had since fallen, and the earth
of his grave was still fresh — but it would
not be fresh next week. Any attempt to
disturb it then would be noticed, an in-
vestigation might be made, inquiries be-
gun. No; it would be folly to wait. So
Wimberley had decided that he would act
that very night.

All of these things passed through his
mind again as his ancient little truck
chugged and wheezed the three miles to
the cemetery where he knew Griffin had
been buried. But such things belonged to
the past, now, he told himself exultantly.
When he’d got his hands on the Slidell dia-
mond he’d leave at once for New Orleans.
Then: money, liquor, women, power.
Ah-h-h! He was glad now that Griffin had
insisted on waiting. Now it was all his!

rpHE young moon had set an hour earlier,
^ but Wimberley switched off the primi-
tive magneto-lights a half-mile before he
reached the graveyard. With a fortune at
stake, there was no excuse for taking
chances, especially since he knew every rut
in the road. He could almost have driven
it blindfolded. An owl hooted somewhere
as he turned into the gateless entrance, and
Wimberley snickered.

" ’Who’ is right!’’ he muttered. "Even
if they found the grave had been opened,
they’d never know who had done it. That’s

128

WEIRD TALES

something nobody’ll ever know but Uncle
Stanley!”

After a few minutes of patient search-
ing, he located the grave. His nostrils had
helped to find the fresh-turned earth. A
tiny flashlamp, carefully masked, enabled
him to read the mortician’s tag and estab-
lish the identification beyond question.

Quickly, silently, he took a long-handled
shovel from the truck and fell to work.
The mound had been sodded, and this
pleased him. When the grave had been
refilled and tlie turf redisposed, little
chance of detection would remain. But he
could not bring himself to relish the enter-
prise, and he speeded up his labors in order
to finish it as soon as possible.

'The shovel had just touched wood when
another owl-hoot convulsed the darkness.
Even though he recognized it almost at
once, Wimberley could not prevent the
tool’s slipping from his perspiring fingers,
and he was uncomfortably aware of the pit
of his stomach.

A sudden loathing for his task gripped
him for a moment, but the thought of the
Slidell diamond nerved him to resume.
That was something worth fighting for —
against man, ghost, or Father of Evil in
person! Again he plied the shovel, but with
more speed and less caution than before.
Telltale clods were being scattered about
the grave, but Wimberley was powerless to
slow his pace; he was afraid that if he
didn’t finish the task soon he would find
himself leaping into his truck and driving
away at top speed.

There was no reason for this mad haste,
he told himself, but panic seldom yields to
reason, and the shovel flew faster and
faster. The top of the coffin-box was clear
at last, and Wimberley used the shovel as
a crowbar to pry off its boards. He was
making a steadily increasing amount of
noise, but caution was a thing of the past.
What he had to do must be done, and the
sooner it was done the better!

It was a titan’s task to lift the coffin
from box and grave, but Wimberley ac-
complished it at the cost of barked knuckles
and wrenched muscles. He’d be full of
aches and pains tomorrow, he reflected as
he balanced the casket upon the fresh
mound of soil, but there would be com-
pensations. Yes, there’d be compensations!

His momentary pause allowed the si-
lence to close in about him again, and he
realized suddenly that he was alone in the
graveyard and that the hour was midnight.
With a shudder he drew a screwdriver
from his pocket and ran exploring fingers
along the coffin.

What was that?

Wimberley tried to grin in the darkness.
He’d almost have sworn he heard a laugh,
somewhere beyond his truck. Not a very
noisy laugh, but almost as if someone were
smiling out loud, he thought. For a mo-
ment he imagined he could see a pair of
eyes glittering at him with demoniac mirth.

He strained his vision against the dark-
ness and finally became convinced that
there was nothing to see. As for the laugh,
that had probably been a sound from his
cooling motor, distorted by his nervous-
ness. He shrugged his shoulders, but the
shrug became a shudder, and his fingers
trembled as he essayed to remove the first
screw from its varnished bed.

After a false start or two, he managed
to get the screw out; then he began to
search for the second one. At this rate, he
reflected angrily, he wouldn’t get the lid off
for an hour. And an hour spent in these
surroundings was an unconscionable pe-
riod. Perhaps it would be better

There it was again!

This time the shock was greater, because
his nerves were already on edge. ’The
screwdriver slipped from his fingers, and
as he crouched down to retrieve it he tried
to convince himself that it was really cool-
ing metal which he had heard. But the re-
assuring belief would not aystallize; there

THE LAUGH

129

was an uneasy residuum of doubt that re-
fused to be gone. If a cooling motor usrully
made such a peculiarly derisive noise, he
should have noticed it before. Frantic
searching of his memory brought forth no
such comforting recollection.

rpHERE were other things, of course,
which could have produced strange
noises: animals and growing shrubs, for
instance. But the effort to reconcfle the
hideous sound with these sources was fu-
tile — and there was no use in trying to
fool himself so. It was possible, though,
that he had only imagined it. Overstrained
nerves do strange things, sometimes.

"Just my imagination, of course,” he
said determinedly to himself as he applied
his recovered screwdriver again to its
task. "If I think I hear it again. I’ll just
put it down to nerves and go ahead as if
nothing had ”

"HeJ9, heh; heh-heh”

Phantom hair erected itself along
Wimberley’s spine and a spasmodic shud-
der flung the screwdriver from his hand
into the darkness. Tliat was exactly how
John Griffin had always laughed!

Against his will, against every atom of
mental force that he could still command,
the thought that Griffin was deriding him
hammered upon Wimberley’s brain and
clamored for acceptance.

"No! No!” he protested desperately.
"If I believe that I’ll have gone mad! I
must stay sane. I must be rational.
I must find a logical explanation for that
—that ”

Suddenly the explanation came. He’d
heard a laugh, true. But it wasn’t Griffin’s
laugh. Some living person was in the
graveyard, spying on him; spying on him
and unable wholly to refrain from laughter
at his pitiful efforts at secrecy!

Maddening as the explanation was, it
was preferable to the alternative, and
Wimberley hugged it to himself avidly.

Damn spying fools and all their kindred!

He was only trying to reclaim what was
rightfully his, and some cheeky busybody
was eavesdropping on him — getting ready
to spoil everything. It wasn’t right!

But — and the thought revived him —
probably the spy hadn’t yet identified
him; there might still be time to escape
with a whole skin. Yes, and with the
Slidell diamond, too!

For this he could thank those who had
located the cemetery upon a hillside. And
he could credit his own account for having
stopped his truck just below the grave. It
v/as no trick at all to slide the coffin from
its resting-place upon the mound of earth
into the truck-bed. Only a moment longer
was needed to leap into the cab and release
the brake. At once gravity seized upon the
laden vehicle and propelled it toward the
entranceway with momentarily increasing
speed. It was barely outside when Wim-
berley threw it into high gear and switched
on the ignition. Still lightless, the truck
hurtled forward into the night.

A dozen times in the next quarter-hour
Wimberley escaped death by less than the
breadth of a hair. Familiar as the road
was, only his frenzied alertness saved him
from a smash-up. Once it was the dark
loom of poplars against the scarcely less
dark vault above that Irept him from
careening into a hillside. At another spot
a whiff of damp air from a brook prevented
his running headlong into a ditch.

When he could stand the strain no
longer, he switched on the headlights, then
tramped upon the accelerator. The indi-
cator of the speedometer spun crazily, then
inched steadily forward. 'Thirty-five, forty,
forty-five, fifty miles per hour it showed
as the old high-pressure tires bounced from
rut to rut and threatened to leave their rims
with every bounce. Fence-posts and tele-
graph poles merged into an almost solid
wall. The badly-clogged radiator began
to steam. A smell of scorched paint came

130

WEIRD TALES

up from the floor-boards, and through a
crack betT\’een them the exhaust-pipe
glowed redly,

W IMBERLEY had put a score of miles
behind him when a sudden clangor-
ous bedlam from the motor told him that
its bearings had been pushed beyond their
limit, and that the wild ride was over.
With tlie last of its momentum, he allowed
the truck to find a resting-place behind a
clump of bushes that would partly screen
it from the road.

Upon the return of silence there came a
recrudescence of the old unease. To fight
it off, Wimberley fell to work on the coffin
again. He used the flashlamp, this time,
regardless of the need for secrecy. His
nerves, he was now willing to admit, were
not equal to completing the task in the
dark. Hard enough to do it with the little
lamp! Only the thought of the Slidell dia-
mond kept him at it.

When the lid of the coffin came off,
Wimberley found his gaze drawn irresisti-
bly to the face of the corpse. Decom-
position had not yet set in, but the corners
of his lips were drawn upward, as if in a
faintly derisive grin. And, although the
lids were down, the dim light produced the
illusion of a mocking stare. Wimberley
gritted his teeth and probed for the
chamois bag. Yes, here it was, greasier and
shabbier than ever, but promisingly heavy.

The cord whicli secured it was a stout
one, and when the eager Wimberley pulled
at it he found the corpse rising to follow
in menacing fashion. Horror lent him
strength for a convulsive jerk that broke
the cord and sent him tumbling backward
to the ground. He bounded up again,
ready to flee, but Griffin’s corpse had set-
tled back into the coffin, out of sight.

For several minutes Wimberley stood
stock-still, breathing heavily, eyes riveted
on the casket. Had anything appeared
above its edge, he would have shrieked

and fled headlong. But nothing appeared.

Finally he was able to remember the bag
in his hand. Now, now he was going to
see the Slidell diamond again — after all
these years. And it was all his!

The thought galvanized him into action.
Stooping over, he set the flashlamp upon
the running-board of the truck; then he
shook out the contents of the chamois bag.
The familiar dull-red hue of sealing-wax
met his feverish gaze. At last!

He laid the cherished object upon the
running-board and rapped it sharply with
the handle of his penknife. The shell of
sealing-wax cracked and fell apart, reveal-
ing the stone within.

It was a very ordinary-looking pebble.

Even as one part of Wimberley’s brain
was numbed by the shock, another portion
was incandescent with understanding. 'That
operation of Griffin’s! The unprofessional-
seeming surgeon from New Orleans. The
speedy recovery. The strange, the incom-
prehensible, reluctance of Griffin to discuss
the operation. All of it was clear as crystal
in one devastating moment.

It was a joke on Wimberley, It was a
huge joke, a cataclysmic joke. It was such
a joke as Death himself must laugh at. And
the cream of the jest was that it had been
perpetrated so long ago. Ten years it had
been since Griffin had called in the big-city
fence to play the part of a surgeon, and to
dicker for the Slidell diamond behind the
smoke-screen of a mythical operation. For
ten long years, for a decade of fearful hope
and bitter despair on tlie part of Wimber-
ley, Griffin had kept the secret and held his
laughter. But now that the climax was
reached even rigor mortis could not re-
strain his mirth!

From within the coffin came a soft mur-
mur of sound. It could have been the
corpse settling further into its satin bed,
but Wimberley was certain that John
Griffin was indulging in a last, derisive
chuckle.

Vhe

otem-Pole

By ROBERT BT.OCH

A frightful horror was consummated in the Indian wing of the museum — ■
a compelling tale of a weird revenge

ARTHUR SHURM belonged to the
vast army of the unidentified —
that mighty swarm of nonentities
which includes street-car conductors, res-
taurant counter-men, elevator operators,
bellboys, theatre ushers, and other public

servants wearing uniforms of their profes-
sions, One never seems to notice their
faces; their garb is a designation of offi-
cial capacity, and the body within makes
no impression on the memory.

Arthur Shurm was one of those men.

131

132

WEIRD TALES

To be exact, he was a museum attendant,
and surely there is no employment which
makes a person less conspicuous. One
might perAance take notice of a coimter-
man’s voice when he bellows "Two sunny
side up and cuppa cawfce;” it is possible
to observe the demeanor of a bellboy as he
lingers for a tip; one can perhaps mark the
particularly erect subservience of an indi-
vidual usher as he leads his party down
the aisle. But a museum attendant never
speaks, it seems. There is nothing about
his carriage or manner to impress a visitor.
Then too, his personality is totally over-
shadowed by the background in which he
moves — tlie vast palace of death and decay
which is a museum. Of all the unidentified
army, the museum attendant is beyond
doubt the most self-effacing.

And yet the fact remains that I shall
never forget Arthur Shurm. I wish to
heaven I could.

I WAS standing in the tavern at the
bar. Never mind what I was doing
there — diet’s say I was looking for local
color. The truth is, I was waiting for a
girl and had been stood up. It happens to
everybody. At any rate, I was standing
there when Arthur Shurm rushed in. I
stared at him.

It was the natural thing to do. A
museum attendant is a museum attendant,
after all. He is a little man in a blue uni-
form — a quite nondescript blue uniform,
lacking the gaudiness of a policeman’s out-
fit, or the dignified buttons that adorn a
fireman. A museum attendant wears his
inconspicuous garb, standing stolidly in the
shadows before mummy-cases or geological
specimens. He may be old or young; one
simply never notices him. He always moves
slowly, quietly, with an air of abstract de-
liberation which seems part and parcel of
the museum’s background, its total disre-
gard of Time.

So it was natural for me to turn and
stare at Arthur Shurm when he ran into
the tavern. I had never seen such move-
ment before.

There were other arresting things, how-
ever, which emphasized his entrance. The
way his pale face twitched, for example;
the roll of his bloodshot eyes — ^these were
phenomena impossible to overlook. And
his hoarse voice, gasping for a drink, quite
electrified me.

The bartender, urbane as all such servi-
tors of Bacchus, never flickered an eyelash
as he poured the whisky. Arthur Shxirm
gxxlped down his drink, and the look in his
eyes made it unnecessary for him to ask
for a second one. It was poured, and as
quickly downed. Then Arthur Shurm put
his head down on the bar and began to
cry. The bartender blandly turned away.
Nothing surprises a tavern-keeper. But I
was the only other customer, and I edged
down the rail and braced the weeping
museum attendant on the shoulder.

“Come on, now,” I said, signaling the
acolyte of Silenus to refill our glasses.
"What’s up, man?”

Arthur Shurm gazed at me through
tears, not of sorrow, but of agonized re-
membrance. I felt that gaze, pouring from
bloodshot eyes that had seen too much. I
knew that the man could never contain
such memories within himself alone. The
story was coming. And when Shurm had
drunk the third drink, it came.

“Thanks. . Thanks, I needed that. Guess
I’m pretty upset. Sorry.”

I smiled reassuringly at his incoherency.
He braced himself.

“Look here. Mister. Let me talk to you.
Got to talk to someone. Then I’ll go out
and find a cop.”

"Any trouble?”

“Yes — no — not what you think. It isn’t
the right kind of trouble. See what I
mean? I have to talk to someone first.
Then I’ll get a cop.”

THE TOTEM-POLE

I had the glasses refilled and led Shurm
to a booth where the bartender could not
overhear. Shurm sat there and trembled
xmtil I grew impatient.

"Now then,” I said, briskly. The firm-
ness in my voice was just what he had
been looking for. He needed such reas-
surance of strength. He was almost eager
to talk.

"I’ll tell it to you straight. Straight, like
it was a story, or something. Then you
can judge making heads or tails out of it
all. I’ll tell it to you from the beginning
and leave it up to you. Mister.”

Lord, he was frightened!

"My name’s Arthur Shurm. I’m care-
taker over at the Public Museum up the
street. You know it. Been there six years
and never had any trouble. Ask anybody
once if I ever had trouble. I’m not crazy,
Mister. They thought I was this week, but
I’m not. After tonight I can prove I’m
O.K. — but something else is crazy. That’s
what gets me. Something else is crazy, and
that nearly drives me nuts.”

I waited. Shurm rattled on.

"Like I say, here it is from the begin-
ning. I been six years on the second floor
— American Indian ethnology. Room 12.
It was fine imtil last week. That’s when
they brought in the totem-pole. The to-
tem-pole!”

He had no reason to scream, and I told
him so.

"Sorry. I have to tell you about the
pole, though. Shoshoonack Indian totem-
pole, from Alaska. Doctor Bailey brought
it back last week. He was up there on an
expedition some place in the mountains,
where these Shoshoonack Indians live.
They’re a new tribe, or something; don’t
know much about them. So Doctor Bailey
he went up there with Doctor Fiske to get
a few things for the museum. And last
week Doctor Bailey came back home with
the totem-pole. Doctor Fiske died up
there. He died there, don’t you see?”

I DIDN’T see, but I ordered another
drink.

’"rhat totem-pole he brought back — ^he
had it set up in the American Indian room
right away. It was a new pole, carved
especially for him by the medicine men of
the tribe. About ten feet tall it was, with
faces all over it — you know how they
look. Horrible thing.

"But Bailey was proud of it. He was
proud of all he had done up there in
the Shoshoonack country, bringing back a
mess of pottery and picture-writings and
stuff that was new to the curators and the
big professors. He had them all in to
look at it, and I guess he wrote up an
article on the customs of the Shoshoonacks
for some official report. Bailey is that kind
of a man, very proud; I always hated him.
Fat, greasy fellow, used to bawl me out
for not dusting aroimd proper. Crazy
about his work, though.

“Anyhow, Bailey was awfully set up
over his discoveries, and he didn’t even
seem to be sorry about Doctor Fiske dying
there in Alaska. Seems Fiske had some
kind of fever, and just kicked off in a few
days. Bailey never even talked about it,
but I know for a fact that Fiske did most
of the work. You see, he was the one who
found out about the Shoshoonack Indians
in the first place, and he ran the expedi-
tion. Bailey had just come along, and
now he strutted around claiming all the
credit. He used to bring in visitors to see
that ugly totem-pole and tell how it was
made specially for him by the grateful In-
dians and presented to him just before he
left for home. Oh, he was cocky enough!

"I’ll never forget the day we first put
in the totem-pole and I got a good look at
the thing. I’m used enough to outlandish
stuff on the job. Mister, but one look at
this totem-pole was enough. It gave me
the creeps.

"You’ve seen them? Well, never one
like this. You know what they mean —

134

WEIRD TALES

symbols of the tribe, sort of a coat-of-arms;
made up of faces of bear-gods and beavers
and owl-spirits, one on top of the other?
This totem-pole was different. It was just
faces; six human faces one on top of the
other, with arms sticking out at the sides.
And those faces were awful. Big staring
red eyes, and grinning yellow teeth like
fangs; all snarling brown faces leering out
in a row so that they seemed to be looking
right at you all the time. When the shad-
ows hit the pole about midafternoon you
could still see the eyes sort of glowing in
the dark. Gave me a fright that first time,
I tell you.

"But Doctor Bailey came in, fat and
snappy in a new suit, and he brought a raft
of professors and big shots, and they stood
around examining the pole while Bailey
jabbered like a monkey who just found a
new coconut. He dragged out a magnify-
ing-glass and puttered with it, trying to
identify the woo'd and the kind of paint
used, and bragging how the medicine man,
Shawgi, had it done as a special going-
away present and made the men of the
tribe work night and day to get it done.

"I hung around and listened. Things
were kinda quiet anyway. Bailey was tell-
ing about the way they carved the thing in
the medicine man’s big hut working only
at night, with seven fires set around the
place so no one could get in. They burned
herbs in the fires to call down the spirits,
and all the time they worked the men in
the hut prayed out loud in long chants.
Bailey claimed that the totem-poles were
the most sacred things the Shoshoonacks
had; they thought the spirits of their dead
chiefs went into the poles, and every time
a chief died a pole was made to set up in
front of his family’s hut. Shawgi, the
medicine man, was supposed to summon
the dead chief’s spirit to inhabit the pole,
and this called for a lot of chants and
prayers.

"Oh, it was interesting stuff. Bailey

laid it on and everybody was impressed.
But none of them could figure out just
how the pole had been put together,
whether it was one piece of wood or a
whole lot of pieces. They didn’t find out
what kind of wood it was, either, or the
nature of the paint used to ornament those
ugly-looking heads. One of the professors
asked Bailey just what the faces on this
pole meant, and Bailey admitted he didn’t
know — it was just a special job made by
the medicine man to give to him as a fare-
well gift before he left. But all this set
me figuring, and after the crowd went
away, I had another look at the pole. I
had a good look, too, because of some-
thing I noticed.”

He paused. '"This may sound long and
silly to you now. Mister, but I got good
reason to tell you all this. I want to ex-
plain what I noticed about them faces.
They weren’t artifdal enough. Do you
know what I mean? Usually Indian carv-
ing is kinda stiff and square-cut. But these
faces were done real carefully, and they
were all different, just like they were sculp-
tures of human heads. And the arms were
carved out perfectly, with hands on the
ends. That just don’t seem natural. I
didn’t like it when I found this out — more
so because it was getting dark already and
those eyes gleamed at me there, just as
though these were real heads that could
see me. It was a queer thing to think, but
that’s the way I felt.

"And the next day I thought so more.
I walked through the room all day and
couldn’t help taking a look every time I
passed the totem-pole. Seemed to me that
the faces were getting clearer — I could
recognize each one of the bottom four
now, just like the faces of people I knew.
The top ones were a little high up to see
closely, and I didn’t bother about those
two. But the bottom four looked like hu-
man faces, now — evil, creepy faces. They
grinned so, showing their teeth, and when

THE TOTEM-POLE

135

I walked away I got the feeling that their
red eyes were following me, just like
people stare at your back.

"After about two days I got used to
that, but then last Friday night I worked
late cleaning, just as I did tonight. And
last Friday night I heard.

«TT WAS about nine o’clock and I was
all alone in the building — all alone
except for Bailey. He stays in his office
generally to do work late. But I was the
only one in the place; for sure the only
one on the second floor. I was cleaning
Room 11 — the one just before the Amer-
ican Indian room, you know — when I
heard voices.

"No, I wasn’t puzzled, like a guy in a
book. I didn’t think of anything else,
couldn’t. Right away I thought those In-
dians on the totem- pole were talking.

"Low, mumbling voices. Talking in
whispers almost, or voices from very far
away. Talking in gibberish I couldn’t un-
derstand — Indian talk. I edged near the
door, and I swear I don’t know whether
I meant to sneak in on them or run away.
But I heard the voices just whisper alone
in the dark room; not one, or two, or three
voices, but all of them. Indian talk. And
then a high voice — a different voice. It
came so quick I didn’t catch all, but I heard
the word. 'Bailey,’ it said, at the end.
'Then I thought I was crazy, and on top of
that I was scared stiff. I ran down the
hall and downstairs to the office and
dragged Bailey back with me. Made him
come quietly, without telling him a thing.
We got to Room 11 and I just held him
there while the droning talk went on.

"He was pale as a sheet. I snapped the
lights on and we went in. Bailey kept star-
ing at the totem-pole. It was all right, of
course, and there weren’t any noises com-
ing from it now. But it was all wrong in
another way. Those faces were too easy
for me to recognize now — those Indian

faces. They stared at me and they stared
at Bailey, and every second they seemed to
snarl more and more. I couldn’t keep
looking at, them, so I watched Bailey.

"Ever see a frightened fat man? Bailey
was almost fainting. He kept looking and
looking, and then his eyes seemed to go all
black in the pupils and he began to mumble
to himself. He did a funny thing. He
looked at the bottom of the pole and then
he pulled his head up real slowly, from
one jerk to another. I knew he was v/atch-
ing each face in turn. And he mumbled.

" 'Kowi, Umsa, Wipi, Sigatch, Molkwi,’
he said. He said it three times, so I re-
member. He said it in five separate words,
like he was calling off names. Then he be-
gan shaking and groaning. 'It’s them,’
he said. 'It’s them all right. All five of
them. But who’s on top? All five of them
that went over the cliff. But how could
Shawgi know that? And what did he mean
to do, giving me this? It’s mad — but there
they are. Kowi, Umsa, Wipi, Sigatch,
Molkwi and — good God!’

"He ran out of the room like doom was
at his heels. I turned out the lights quick
and followed. I didn’t wait around to see
if the whispering started again, either, and
I had enough of looking at those faces. I
went out and had a few stiff drinks that
night, I can tell you. Oh— thanks. Mister.
Thanks a lot. I can use this one with what
I still got to tell you. I’ll make it short,
too. We have to get a cop.

"Well, Monday, Bailey got me before I
went on duty. He looked plenty pale
around the gills, and I could see he hadn’t
slept any better than I did. 'I think it’s
better if we forget about last Friday night,
Shurm,’ he said. 'Both of us were a little
upset.’

"I wasn’t that easy. 'What do you think
is wrong. Doctor?’ I asked him.

"He knew enough not to stall. 'I don’t
know,’ he said. 'All I can say is that the
faces on that totem-pole are those of In-

136

WEIRD TALES

dians I knew up in the Shoshoonack coun-
try — Indians that died in an accident, go-
ing over a cliff in a dog-sled.’ He looked
sick when he said this. 'But don’t say any-
thing to anyone, Shurm. I give you my
word I’m going to investigate this fully,’
he says, 'and when I get the facts I’ll let
you know.’

"With that he slipped me five dollars.

"So I worked along, but I wasn’t happy.
I didn’t go into that room any more than
I had to on Monday or Tuesday, and still
I just couldn’t get ideas out of my head.
Queer ideas. Ideas about how the medicine
man, Shawgi, used to call souls to put in
the totem-poles he made. Ideas of how
Doctor Bailey might be lying some way
about this accident he claimed the Indians
were killed in. Ideas of how 'Shawgi gave
the totem-pole to Bailey knowing it would
haunt him. Ideas like that, and always the
pictoes of those terrible grinning faces and
the little thin whispering in the dark.

“Wednesday I noticed Bailey go into the
room. It was raining out, and the place
was just about empty, and Bailey went into
the room. He didn’t know I’d seen him
go in, and I was just curious enough to
follow him, and mighty curious to stick be-
hind a case and listen when I saw he was
kneeling on the floor in front of the totem-
pole and praying.

" 'Save me,’ he mumbles. 'Spare me.
I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to do it. I
killed you — I cut the thongs on the har-
ness and when the sled rounded the bend
it went over. That I did. But you were
present when I did — the other — I couldn’t
spare you as witnesses. I couldn’t.’

“He sounded crazy, but I was guessing
what he meant. He had killed those In-
dians, as I suspected, to hush them up
about something else. And so Shawgi
had fixed up the totem-pole to haunt him
with it.

"Then Bailey began talking real low,
and I heard him say something about Doc-

tor Fiske and the way he had died; how
Shawgi had been Fiske’s friend, and how
Fiske and Bailey had quarreled. The
truth came to me then. I knew that
Bailey had killed Fiske, instead of Fiske
dying of- fever like he was supposed to.
Probably they had gone on a trip after
specimens with the Indians. Bailey had
killed Fiske to steal his trophies and the
credit of the expedition. The Indians had
found out about it. So Bailey had tam-
pered with the sled and sent the Indians
over the cliff on the way back. Shawgi
made the totem of their faces and gave it
to Bailey to drive him crazy.

‘^TTTELL, it looked as though he was

» » succeeding. Bailey whimpered like
a dog, crawling on the floor in front of
those six grinning faces in the gloom, and
it made me really sick to see it. I was
going crazy too, hearing voices and look-
ing at smiles from wooden faces. I got
out without going back to that room.

“Thursday was my day off, and it pleased
me. Today I went back. First one I saw
was Bailey. He looked almost as though
he was dying. 'What’s the dope. Doctor?’
I said.

“He just shook his head. Then he whis-
pered. 'There were voices again last night,
Shurm. And I could understand them.’
I looked to see if he was kidding, but no.
He bent down close. 'Voices came to me
in the night. I wasn’t here. I was home.
But they came. They can come anywhere.
I hear them now. 'They caUed me to the
museum. They wanted me to come very
much last night. All of them did — the
other, too. I nearly went. Tell me, Shurm
— for the mercy of God — did you hear
voices too?’

“I shook my head.

" 'I’m going to take that totem-pole
down as soon as I can,’ he went on. 'I’m
going to take it down and have it burned.
I will get permission today from the Chief.

THE TOTEM-POLE

137

He must let me. If not you and I shall
have to tell him what we know. I’m rely-
ing on you. We must beat that devil
Shawgi — ^he hated me, I know — that’s why
he did this — beating his drums and calling
up devils with his magic while he carved
the faces to hide the souls that wait ’

‘"Then someone came by, and Bailey
went off.

"That afternoon I couldn’t help myself
— ^I went in and looked at the totem-pole
once again. Funny the way I trembled
when I passed the door; it was getting me,
too. Now that I had guessed about the
murdered Indians I could see that the faces
were taken from real life. I looked at
them all — even the top one. The sixth
one I still couldn’t recognize — it might
be the face of the medicine-man, Shawgi,
himself. But it was the worst of all the
smiling wicked faces with white teeth
through which they whispered at night.
At night!

"Tonight I was going to have to stay
and look over the place; clean up. I didn’t
want to. I had too much to think about.
Would I have to hear voices again? And
downstairs woridng would be Doctor
Bailey — the man I suspected of six mur-
ders. Yet I couldn’t do a thing. No one
would believe me, and I had no proof of
either voices or Bailey being guilty. I wor-
ried, and all the time it got darker and
darker, and the museum closed, and I be-
gan to go over tire second floor room by
room. Bailey was down in the office, work-
ing.

"About an hour and a half ago I was in
Room 10. I beard the voices two rooms
away. They were loud tonight; loud as if
they were calling. I could hear grunting
Indian sounds. And then I heard the high
voice calling.

" 'Bailey! Bailey! Come here, Bailey!
I’m waiting, Bailey — I’m waiting!’

"I was scared sick when Bailey came, a
minute later. He walked slow as if he

didn’t see me, and his eyes were all black
pupil. In his hand he had a match-box,
and under his arm was a jug of kerosene.
I knew what he was going to do.

"The voices were grumbling louder, but
I had to follow. I didn’t dare use any
lights. Bailey went in ahead of me, and
then I heard that laughing.

"It was the laughing that made me stop.
I can’t tell you about it, except that it was
horrible — a chuckling laugh that went
right through me. And someone — some-
thing — said 'Hello, Bailey.’ Then I knew
I was crazy, because I recognized the voice.
For a minute I was stunned. Then I ran
into the room.

"Just as I got near the doorway the
screaming started. Bailey was screaming,
and it mixed in with the awful laughing,
and I heard a scrabbling sound and a crash
as the kerosene jug fell. I pulled out my
flashlight and I saw it. Lord!

"I didn’t wait. I ran out. I came here.
I want a cop. I haven’t gone back yet. I
want you to get the cop with me and come
back. I want you should believe me and
see what I saw. Oh ’’

W E GOT the cop, Shurm and I, and we
went back. I wish I could skip this
part. We went back and took the elevator
to the second floor, and Shurm nearly
fainted before we dragged him out. We
got his keys and made him light the place
up — I’d give a million if we hadn’t insisted
on that. Then we marched down the hall
and into Room 11. At the door Shurm
had another hysterical outburst, but we
dragged him on in.

At first neither the cop nor I saw it.
Shurm had us by the arms, screaming away.

"Before you look I want to tell you
something. Remember when I said I rec-
ognized the voice that called Bailey’s name?
'The voice belonged to the sixth head — the

138

WEIRD TALES

one I couldn’t see so well — the one Bailey
was aftaid of. You know whose head it
was, don’t you?”

I guessed.

"It was 'Doctor Fiske’s head,” Shurm
moaned. "Shawgi was his friend, and
when Bailey double-crossed and killed him,
Shawgi included him with the Indians in
the revenge. Shawgi put Fiske’s face on
top of the totem-pole — he put Fiske’s soul
there just as he did with the five dead In-
dians. Fiske called Bailey tonight!”

.We pulled Shurm forward as we
rounded the cases. And then we stood
before the totem-pole.

It was not easy to see the wooden pillar
because there was a man standing against
it — quite close against it, as though hi's
arms were around it. A second glance,
however, revealed the truth. Its arms were
around him!

The wooden arms of the totem-pole had
closed about Bailey’s body in a tight em-
brace. They had sei2ed him as he stooped
to fire the pole, and now they crushed him
close — crushed him close against the five
writhing heads, close against the pointed
wooden teeth of the five mouths. And one
mouth had his legs, another his thighs, a
third his belly, a fourth his chest, a fifth his
throat. The five pairs of mouths had bit-
ten deep, and there was blood on wooden
lips.

Bailey was staring upward with what
was left of his face. It was simply a torn
red mask that gazed into another mask —
the sixth and uppermost face of the totem-
pole. The sixth face, as Shurm had said,
was undoubtedly the face of a white man;
the face of Doctor Fiske. And on the
bloody lips rested not a smile, but a sar-
donic grin.

Tomb

, By JAMES E. WARREN, Jr.

Perhaps an Insect-Man from Jupiter
Will some day crawl across my shattered tomb
Before he sets his sudden ship a-whir
And drops into the sky. Perhaps will come
Some weirder Thing from out the Further Dark
And stare above me with its metal face
To where his own world like a shifting spark
Looms love-lost in the loneliness of space.

They will find nothing but black winds that tore
'Iliat flesh and bone and iron into dust
A million years and ice a million more;

But they will prove some scientific trust
An ancient held. And they will never know
That I have died and that I loved you so.

139

Vhe

of the House of Usher

By EDGAR ALLAN POE

Son coear est un luth suspendu;

Sitot qu’ on le touche il resonne.

— De Beranger.

D uring the whole of a dull, dark,
and soundless day in the autumn
of the year, when the clouds
hung oppressively low in the heavens, I
had been passing alone, on horseback,
through a singularly dreary tract of coim-
try, and at length found myself, as the
shades of the evening drew on, within view
of the melancholy House of Usher, I know
not how it was — ^but, with the first glimpse
of the building, a sense of insufferable
gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insuffer-
able; for the feeling was unrelieved by any
of that half-pleasiirable, because poetic,
sentiment with which the mind usually re-
ceives even the sternest natural images of
the desolate or terrible.

I looked upon the scene before me —
upon the mere house, and the simple land-
scape features of the domain — ^upon the
bleak walls — ^upon the vacant eye-like win-
dows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon
a few white trunks of decayed trees — ^with
an utter depression of soul which I can com-
pare to no earthly sensation more properly
140

than to the after-dream of the reveller upon
opium — ^riie bitter lapse into everyday life
— the hideous dropping off of the veil.
There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening
of the heart — an unredeemed dreariness of
thought which no goading of the imagina-
tion could torture into aught of the sub-
lime. What was it — I paused to think —
what was it that so unnerved me in the
contemplation of the House of Usher?

It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could
I grapple with the shadowy fancies that
crowded upon me as I pondered. I was
forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory
conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there
are combinations of very simple natural
objects which have the power of thus affect-
ing us, still the analysis of this power lies
among considerations beyond our depth.
It was possible, I reflected, that a mere dif-
ferent arrangement of the particulars of the
scene, of the details of the picture, would
be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to anni-
hilate, its capacity for sorrowful impres-
sions; and, acting upon this idea, I reined
my horse to the precipitous brink of a black
and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled luster
by the dwelling, and gazed down — but

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER

141

with a shudder even more thrilling than
before — upon the remodeled and inverted
images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly
tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like win-
dows.

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom
I now proposed to myself a sojourn of
some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick
Usher, had been one of my boon com-
panions in boyhood; but many years had
elapsed since our last meeting. A letter,
however, had lately reached me in a distant
part of the country — a letter from him —
which, in its wildly importunate nature,
had admitted of no other than a personal
reply. The manuscript gave evidence of
nervous agitation. The writer spoke of
acute bodily illness — of a mental disorder
which oppressed him — and of an earnest
desire to see me, as his best and indeed his
only personal friend, with a view of at-
tempting, by the cheerfulness of my so-
ciety, some alleviation of his malady. It
was the manner in which all this, and much
more, was said — it was the apparent heart
that went with his request — ^which allowed
me no room for hesitation; and I accord-
ingly obeyed forthwith what I still consid-
ered a very singular summons.

Although, as boys, we had been even in-
timate associates, yet I really knew little of
my friend. His reserve had been always
excessive and habitual. I was aware, how-
ever, that his very ancient family had been
noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar
sensibility of temperament, displaying it-
self, through long ages, in many works of
exalted art, and manifested, of late, in re-
peated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive
charity, as well as in a passionate devotion
to the intricacies, perhaps even more than
to the orthodox and easily recognizable
beauties, of musical science.

I had learned, too, the very remarkable
fact that the stem of the Usher race, all
time-honored as it was, had put forth, at
no period, any enduring branch; in other

words, that the entire family lay in the
direct line of descent, and had always, with
very trifling and very temporary variations,
so lain. It was this deficiency, I considered,
while nmning over in thought the perfect
keeping of the character of the premises
with the accredited character of the people,
and while speculating upon the possible in-
fluence which the one, in the long lapse of
centuries, might have exercised upon the
other — it was this deficiency, perhaps of
collateral issue, and tlie consequent un-
deviating transmission, from sire to son, of
the patrimony with the name, which had,
at length, so identified the two as to merge
the original title of the estate in the quaint
and equivocal appellation of the "Hou^e
of Usher” — an appellation which seemed
to include, in the minds of the peasantry
who used it, both the family and the family
mansion.

I HAVE said that the sole effect of my
somewhat childish experiment — that of
looking down within the tarn — had been
to deepen the first singular impression.
There can be no doubt that the conscious-
ness of the rapid increase of my supersti-
tion — for why should I not so term it? —
served mainly to accelerate the increase it-
self. Such, I have long known, is the
paradoxical law of all sentiments having
terror as a basis. And it might have been
for this reason only, that, when I again
uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from
its image in the pool, there grew in my
mind a strange fancy — a fancy so ridicu-
lous, indeed, that I but mention it to show
the vivid force of the sensations which op-
pressed me. I had so worked upon my
imagination as really to believe that about
the whole mansion and domain there hung
an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and
their immediate vicinity — an atmosphere
which had no afiinity with the air of
heaven, but which had reeked up from the
decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the

142

WEIRD TALES

silent tarn — a pestilent and mystic vapor,
dull, sluggish, faintly discernible and
leaden-hued.

Shaking ofi from my spirit what must
have been a dream, I scanned more nar-
rowly the real aspect of the building. Its
principal feature seemed to be that of an
excessive antiquity. The discoloration of
ages had been great. Minute fungi over-
spread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine
tangled web- work from the eaves. Yet all
this was apart from any extraordinary di-
lapidation. No portion of the masonry had
fallen; and there appeared to be a wild in-
consistency between its still perfect adapta-
tion of parts, and the crumbling condition
of the individual stones. In this there was
much that reminded me of the specious
totality of old wood-work which has rotted
for long years in some neglected vault,
with no disturbance from the breath of the
external air. Beyond this indication of ex-
tensive decay, however, the fabric gave lit-
tle token of instability. Perhaps the eye of
a scrutinizing observer might have discov-
ered a barely perceptible fissure, which, ex-
tending from the roof of the building in
front, made its way down the wall in a
zigzag direction, until it became lost in the
sullen waters of the tarn.

Noticing these things, I rode over a short
causeway to the house. A servant in wait-
ing took my horse, and I entered the Gothic
archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy
step, thence conducted me, in silence,
through many dark and intricate passages
in my progress to the studio of his master.
Much that I encountered on the way con-
tributed, I know not how, to heighten the
vague sentiments of which I have already
spoken. While the objects around me —
while the carvings of the ceilings, the som-
ber tapestries of the walls, the ebon black-
ness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric
armorial trophies which rattled as I strode,
were but matters to which, or to such as
w'hich, I had been accustomed from my in-

fancy — while I hesitated not to acknowl-
edge how familiar was all this — I still won-
dered to find how unfamiliar were the
fancies which ordinary images were stir-
ring up.

On one of the staircases, I met the phy-
sician of the family. His countenance, I
thought, wore a mingled expression of low
cunning and perplexity. He accosted me
with trepidation and passed On. The valet
now threw open a door and ushered me
into the presence of his master.

T he room in which I found myself was
very large and lofty. The windows
were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so
vast a distance from the black oaken floor
as to be altogether inaccessible from within.
Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made
their way through the trellised panes, and
served to render sufiiciently distinct the
more prominent objects around; the eye,
however, struggled in vain to reach the re-
moter angles of the chamber, or the recesses
of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark
draperies hung upon the walls. The gen-
eral furniture was profuse, comfortless,
antique, and tattered. Many books and
musical instruments lay scattered about, but
failed to give any vitality to the scene. I
felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sor-
row. An air of stern, deep, and irredeem-
able gloom hung over and pervaded all.

Upon my entrance. Usher arose from a
sofa on which he had been lying at full
length, and greeted me with a vivacious
warmth which had much in it, I at first
thought, of an overdone cordiality — of the
constrained effort of the ennuye man of the
world. A glance, however, at his counte-
nance convinced me of his perfect sincer-
ity. We sat down; and for some moments,
while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with
a feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely,
man had never before so terribly altered, in
so brief a period, as had Roderick Usher!
It was with difficulty that I could bring my-

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER

143

self to admit the identity of the wan being
before me with the companion of my early
boyhood. Yet the character of his face had
been at all times remarkable. A cadaver-
ousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid,
and luminous beyond comparison; lips
somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a
surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a
delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth
of nostril unusual in similar formations; a
finely molded chin, speaking, in its want
of prominence, of a want of moral energy;
hair of a more than web-like softness and
tenuity — these features, with an inordinate
expansion above the regions of the temple,
made up altogether a countenance not easily
to be forgotten. And now in the mere
exaggeration of the prevailing character of
these features, and of the expression they
were wont to convey, lay so much of change
that I doubted to whom I spoke. The now
ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now
miraculous luster of the eye, above all
things startled and even awed me. The
silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow
all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer
texture, it floated rather than fell about the
face, I could not, even with effort, connect
its Arabesque expression with any idea of
simple humanity.

In the manner of my friend I was at
once struck with an incoherence — an incon-
sistency; and I soon found this to arise
from a series of feeble and futile struggles
to overcome an habitual trepidancy — an
excessive nervous agitation. For something
of this nature I had indeed been prepared,
no less by his letter, than by reminiscences
of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions
deduced from his peculiar physical con-
formation and temperament. His action
was alternately vivacious and sullen. His
voice varied rapidly from a tremulous in-
decision (when the animal spirits seemed
utterly in abeyance) to that species of ener-
getic concision — that abrupt, weighty, un-
hurried, and hollow-sounding enunciation

— that leaden, self-balanced, and perfectly
modulated guttural utterance, which may
be observed in the lost drunkard, or the
irreclaimable eater of opium, during the
periods of his most intense excitement.

It was thus that he spoke of the object
of my visit, of his earnest desire to see me,
and of the solace he expected me to afford
him. He entered, at some length, into what
he conceived to be the nature of his malady.
It was, he said, a constitutional and a family
evil and one for which he despaired to find
a remedy — a. mere nervous affection, he im-
mecJiately added, which would undoubt-
edly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a
host of unnatural sensations. Some of these,
as he detailed them, interested and bewil-
dered me; although, perhaps, the term.s and
the general manner of their narration had
their weight. He suffered much from a
morbid acuteness of the senses; the most
insipid food was alone endurable; he could
wear only garments of certain texture; tire
odors of all flowers were oppressive; his
eyes were tortured by even a faint light;
and there were but peculiar sounds, and
these from stringed instruments, which did
not inspire him with horror.

T O AN anomalous species of terror I
found him a bounden slave. 'T shall
perish,” said he, "I ffu/st perish in this de-
plorable folly. Thus, thus, and not other-
wise, shall I be lost. I dread the events
of the future, not in themselves, but in their
results. I shudder at the thought of any,
even the most trivial, incident, which may
operate upon this intolerable agitation of
soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of
danger, except in its absolute effect — in ter-
ror. In this unnerved, in this pitiable, con-
dition I feel that the period will sooner or
later arrive when I must abandon life and
reason together, in some struggle with the
grim phantasm. Fear.”

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and
through broken and equivocal hints,

144

WEIRD TALES

another singular feature of his mental con-
dition. He was enchained by certain
superstitious impressions in regard to the
dwelling which he tenanted, and whence,
for many years, he had never ventured
forth — in regard to an influence whose sup-
posititious force was conveyed in terms too
shadowy here to be re-stated — an influence
which some peculiarities in the mere form
and substance of his family mansion had,
by dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained
over his spirit — an effect which the
physique of the gray walls and turrets, and
of the dim tarn into which they all looked
down, had, at length, brought about upon
the morale of his existence.

He admitted, however, although with
hesitation, that much of the peculiar gloom
which thus afflicted him could be traced to
a more natural and far more palpable origin
— to the severe and long-continued illness
— indeed to the evidently approaching dis-
solution — of a tenderly beloved sister, his
sole companion for long years, his last and
only relative on earth.

"Her decease,” he said, with a bitterness
which I can never forget, "would leave him
(him, the hopeless and the frail) the last
of the ancient race of the Ushers.” While
he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was
she called) passed through a remote por-
tion of the apartment, and, without having
noticed my presence, disappeared. I re-
garded her with an utter astonishment not
unmingled v/ith dread; and yet I found it
impossible to account for such feelings.
A sensation of stupor oppressed me as my
eyes followed her retreating steps. When
a door, at length, closed upon her, my
glance sought instinctively and eagerly the
countenance of the brother; but he had
buried his face in his hands, and I could
only perceive that a far more than ordinary
wanness had overspread the emaciated fin-
gers through which trickled many passion-
ate tears.

The disease of the lady Madeline had

long baflSed the skill of her physicians. A
settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of
the person, and frequent although transient
affections of a partially cataleptical char-
acter were the xmusual diagnosis. Hitherto
she had steadily borne up against the pres-
sure of her malady, and had not betaken
herself finally to bed; but on the closing
in of the evening of my arrival at the house,
she succumbed (as her brother told me at
night with inexpressible agitation) to the
prostrating power of the destroyer; and I
learned that the glimpse I had obtained of
her person would thus probably be the last
I should obtain — that the lady, at least
while living, would be seen by me no more.

For several days ensuing, her name was
unmentioned by either Usher or myself;
and during this period I was busied in earn-
est endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of
my friend. We painted and read together,
or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild
improvisations of his speaking guitar. And
thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy
admitted me more unreservedly into the
recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did
I perceive the futility of all attempt at
cheering a mind from which darkness, as
if an inherent positive quality, poured forth
upon all objects of the moral and physical
universe in one imceasing radiation of
gloom.

I SHALL ever bear about me a memory
of the many solemn hours I thus spent
alone with the master of the House of
Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt
to convey an idea of the exact character of
the studies, or of the occupations, in which
he involved me, or led me the way. An
excited and highly distempered ideality
threw a sulfurous luster over all. His
long improvised dirges will ring forever
in my ears. Among other things, I hold
painfully in mind a certain singular per-
version and amplification of the wild air of
the last waltz of Von Weber. From the

‘ THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER

145

paintings over which his elaborate fancy
brooded, and which grew, touch by touch,
into vaguenesses at which I shuddered the
more thriliingly, because I shuddered
knowing not why — from these paintings
(vivid as their images now are before me)
I would in vain endeavor to educe more
than a small portion which should lie with-
in the compass of merely written words.
By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of
his designs, he arrested and overawed at-
tention. If ever mortal painted an idea,
that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me
at least, in the circumstances then surround-
ing me, there arose out of the pure abstrac-
tions which the hypochondriac contrived to
throw upon his canvas, an intensity of in-
tolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I
ever yet in the contemplation of the cer-
tainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of
Fuseli.

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions
of my friend, partaking not so rigidly of
the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed
forth, although feebly, in words. A small
picture presented the interior of an im-
mensely long and rectangular vault or tun-
nel, with low walls, smooth, white and
without interruption or device. Certain
accessory points of the design served well
to convey the idea that this excavation lay
at an exceeding depth below the surface of
the earth. No outlet was observed in any
portion of its vast extent, and no torch or
other artificial source of light was discern-
ible; yet a flood of intense rays rolled
throughout, and bathed the v/hole in a
ghastly and inappropriate splendor.

I HAVE just spoken of that morbid con-
dition of the auditory nerve which ren-
dered all music intolerable to the sufferer,
with the exception of certain effects of
stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the
narrow limits to which he thus confined
himself upon the guitar which gave birth,
in great measure, to the fantastic character

of his performances. But the fervid facility
of his impromptus could not be so ac-
counted for. They must have been, and
were, in the notes, as well as in the words
of his wild fantasias (for he not unfre-
quently accompanied himself with rimed
verbal improvisations), the result of that
intense mental collectedness and concen-
tration to which I have previously alluded
as observable only in particular moments
of the highest artificial excitement. The
words of one of these rhapsodies I have
easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the
more forcibly impressed with it as he gave
it, because, in the under or mystic current
of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived,
and for the first time, a full consciousness
on the part of Usher of the tottering of his
lofty reason upon her tlirone. The verses,
which were entitled The Haunted Palace,
ran very nearly, if not accurately, thus:

In the greenest of our valleys,

By good angels tenanted.

Once a fair and stately palace —

Radiant palace- — reared its head.

In the monarch Thought’s dominion—

It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow

(This — all this — was in the olden
Time long ago) ;

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A winged odor went away.

III

Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw

Spirits moving musically
To a lute’s well-tuned law;

Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting.

The ruler of the realm was seen.

146

WEIRD TALES

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing,
flowing

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing.

In voices of surpassing beauty.

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow.

Assailed the monarch’s high estate;

(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travelers now within that valley.
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;

While, like a rapid ghastly river.

Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out forever,

And laugh — but smile no more.

I will remember tliat suggestions arising
from this ballad led us into a train of
thought wherein there became manifest an
opinion of Usher’s, which I mention not
so much on account of its novelty (for other
men have thought thus), as on account of
the pertinacity with which he maintained it.
This opinion, in its general form, was that
of the sentience of all vegetable things. But
in his disordered V ervert et Chartreuse of
Cresset; the Belfancy, the idea had as-
sumed a more daring character, and tres-
passed, under certain conditions, upon the
kingdom of inorganization.

I lade words to express the full extent,
or the earnest abandon of his persuasion.
The belief, however, was connected (as I
have previously hinted) with the gray
stones of the home of his forefathers. The

conditions of the sentence had been here,
he imagined, fulfilled in the metliod of
collocation of these stones — in the order
of their arrangement, as well as in that of
the many jungi which overspread them,
and of the decayed trees which stood
around — above all, in the long undisturbed
endurance of this arrangement, and in its
reduplication in the still waters of the tarn.
Its evidence — the evidence of the sentience
— was to be seen, he said (and I here
started as he spoke) , in the gradual yet cer-
tain condensation of an atmosphere of their
own about the waters and the walls. The
result was discoverable, he added, in that
silent yet imporhmate and terrible influ-
ence which for centuries had molded tlie
destinies of his family, and which made
him what I now saw him — what he was.
Such opinions need no comment, and I v/ill
make none.

O UR books — the books which, for years,
had formed no small portion of the
mental existence of the invalid — ^were, as
might be supposed, in strict keeping with
this character of phantasm. We pored to-
gether over such works as the Heaven and
Hell of Swedenborg; the Subterranean
Voyage of Nicholas Klimm by Holberg;
the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean
D’ Indagine and of Dela Chambre; the
Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck;
and the City of the Sun of Campanella.
One favorite volume, was a small octavo
edition of the Directorium Inquisitorium,
by the Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and
there were passages in Pomponius Mela,
about the old African satyrs and oegipans,
over which Usher would sit dreaming for
hours. His chief delight, however, was
found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare
and curious book in quarto Gothic — the
manual of a forgotten church — ^the Vigiloe
Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesioe
Maguntinoe.

I could not help thinking of the wild

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER

147

ritual of this work, and of its probable in-
fluence upon the hypochondriac, when, one
evening, having informed me abruptly that
the lady Madeline was no more, he stated
his intention of preserving her corpse for a
fortnight (previously to its final inter-
ment) , in one of the numerous vaults with-
in the main walls of the building. The
worldly reason however, assigned for this
singular proceeding, was one which I did
not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother
had been led to his resolution (so he told
me) by consideration of the unusual char-
acter of the malady of the deceased, of cer-
tain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the
part of her medical men, and of the remote
and exposed situation of the burial-ground
of the family. I will not deny that when I
called to mind the sinister countenance of
the person whom I met upon the staircase,
on the day of my arrival at the house, I
had no desire to oppose what I regarded as
at best but a harmless, and by no means an
unnatural, precaution.

At the request of Usher, I personally
aided him in the arrangements for the tem-
porary entombment. The body having been
encofiined, we two alone bore it to its rest.
The vault in which we placed it (and which
had been so long unopened that our
torches, half smothered in its oppressive
atmbsphere, gave us little opportunity for
investigation) was small, damp, and en-
tirely without means of admission for light;
lying, at great depth, immediately beneath
that portion of the building in which was
my own sleeping-apartment. It had been
used, apparently, in remote feudal times,
for the worst purposes of a donjon-keep,
and, in later days, as a place of deposit for
powder, or some other highly combustible
substance, as a portion of its floor, and the
whole interior of a long archway through
which we reached it, were carefully
sheathed with copper. The door, of mas-
sive iron, had been, also, similarly pro-
tected. Its immense weight caused an un-

usually sharp, grating sound, as it moved
upon its hinges.

Having deposited our mournful burden
upon trestles within this region of horror,
we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed
lid of the coffin, and looked upon the face
of the tenant. A striking similitude be-
tween the brother and sister now first ar-
rested my attention; and Usher, divining,
perhaps, my tlioughts, murmured out some
few words from which I learned that the
deceased and himself had been twins, and
that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible
nature had always existed between them.
Our glances, however, rested not long upon
the dead— for we could not regard her un-
awed. The disease which had thus en-
tombed the lady in the maturity of youth,
had left, as usual in all maladies of a
strictly cataleptical character, the mockery
of a faint blush upon the bosom and the
face, and that suspiciously lingering smile
upon the lips which is so terrible in death.
We replaced and screwed down the lid,
and, having secured the door of iron, made
our way, with toil, into the scarcely less
gloomy apartments of the upper portion of
the house.

And now, some days of bitter grief hav-
ing elapsed, an observable change came
over the features of the mental disorder of
my friend. His ordinary manner had van-
ished. His ordinary occupations were
neglected or forgotten. He roamed from
chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal,
and objectless step. The pallor of his
countenance had assumed, if possible, a
more ghastly hue — but the luminousness of
his eye had utterly gone out. The once
occasional huskiness of his tone was heard
no more; and a tremulous quaver, as if of
extreme terror, habitually characterized his
utterance. There were times, indeed, when
I thought his unceasingly agitated mind
was laboring with some oppressive secret,
to divulge which he struggled for the nec-
essary courage. At times, again, I v/as

148

WEIRD TALES

obliged to resolve all into the mere inex-
plicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld
him gazing upon vacancy for long hours,
in an attitude of the profoundest attention,
as if listening to some imaginary sound.
It was no wonder that his condition terri-
fied — that it infected me. I felt creeping
upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the
wild influences of his own fantastic yet im-
pressive superstitions.

It was, especially, upon retiring to bed
late in the night of the seventh or eighth
day after the placing of the lady Madeline
within the donjon, that I experienced the
full power of such feelings. Sleep came
not near my couch — while the hours waned
and waned away. I struggled to reason off
the nervousness which had dominion over
me.

I endeavored to believe that much, if
not all of what I felt, was due to the bewil-
dering influence of the gloomy furniture
of the room — of the dark and tattered
draperies, which, tortured into motion by
the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fit-
fully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled
uneasily about the decorations of the bed.
But my efforts were fruitless. An irrepres-
sible tremor gradually pervaded my frame;
and, at length, there sat upon my very
heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm.
Shaking this off with a gasp and a strug-
gle, I uplifted myself upon the pillows,
and, peering earnestly within the intense
darkness of the chamber, harkened — I
know not why, except that an instinctive
spirit prompted me — to certain low and
indefinite sounds which came, through the
pauses of the storm, at long intervals, I
knew not whence. Overpowered by an
intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable
yet unendurable, I threw on my clothes
with haste (for I felt that I should sleep
no more during the night) , and endeavored
to arouse myself from the pitiable condi-
tion into which I had fallen by pacing
rapidly to and fro through the apartment.

I HAD taken but few turns in this man-
ner, when a light step on an adjoining
staircase arrested my attention. I presently
recognized it as that of Usher. In an in-
stant afterward he rapped, with a gentle
toudi, at my door, and entered, bearing a
lamp. His countenance was, as usual, ca-
daverously wan — ^but, moreover, there was
a species of mad hilarity in his eyes — ^an
evidently restrained hysteria in his whole
demeanor. His air appalled me — ^but any-
thing was preferable to the solitude which
I had so long endured, and I even wel-
comed his presence as a relief.

"And you have not seen it?” he said
abruptly, after having stared about him for
some moments in silence — "you have not
then seen it? — but, stay! you shall.”

Thus speaking, and having carefully
shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the
casements, and threw it freely open to the
storm.

The impetuous fury of the entering gust
nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, in-
deed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful
night, and one wildly singular in its terror
and its beauty. A whirlwind had apparently
collected its force in our vicinity; for there
were frequent and violent alterations in the
direction of the wind; and the exceeding
density of tlie clouds (which hung so low
as to press upon the turrets of the house)
did not prevent our perceiving the life-like
velocity with which they flew careering
from all points against each other, without
passing away into the distance. I say that
even their exceeding density did not pre-
vent our perceiving this — yet we had no
glimpse of the moon or stars, nor was
tliere any flashing forth of the lightning.
But the under surfaces of the huge masses
of agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial
objects immediately around us, were glow-
ing in the unnatural light of a faintly
luminous and distinctly visible gaseous ex-
halation which hung about and enshrouded
the mansion.

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER

149

"You must not — you shall not behold
this!” said I, shuddering, to Usher, as I
led him, with a gentle violence, from the
window to a seat. "These appearances,
which bewilder you, are merely electrical
phenomena not uncommon — or it may be
that they have their ghastly origin in the
rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this
casement — the air is chilling and danger-
ous to your frame. Here is one of your
favorite romances. I will read, and you
shall listen: — and so we will pass away
this terrible night together.”

rpHE antique volume which I had taken
up was the Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot
Canning; but I had called it a favorite of
Usher’s more in sad jest than in earnest;
for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth
and unimaginative prolixity which could
have had interest for the lofty and spiritual
ideality of my friend. It was, however, the
only book immediately at hand; and I in-
dulged a vague hope that the excitement
which now agitated the hypochondriac,
might find relief (for the history of mental
disorder is full of similar anomalies) even
in the extremeness of the folly which I
should read. Could I have judged, indeed,
by the wild overstrained air of vivacity with
which he harkened, or apparently harkened
to the words of the tale, I might well have
congratulated myself upon the success of
my design.

I had arrived at that well-known portion
of the story where Ethelred, the hero of the
Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable
admission into the dwelling of the hermit,
proceeds to make good an entrance by
force. Here, it will be remembered, the
words of die narrative run thus:

"And Ethelred, who was by nature of a
doughty heart, and who was now mighty
withal, on account of the powerfulness of
the wine which he had drunken, waited no
longer to hold parley with the hermit, who,
in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful

turn, but feeling the rain upon his shoul-
ders, and fearing the rising of the tempest,
uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows,
made quickly room in the plankings of the
door for his gauntleted hand; and now
pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked,
and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the
noise of the dry and hollow-sounding wood
alarumed and reverberated throughout the
forest.”

At the termination of this sentence I
started and, for a moment, paused; for it
appeared to me (although I at once con-
cluded that my excited fancy had deceived
me) — it appeared to me that, from some
very remote portion of the mansion, there
came, indistinctly to my ears, what might
have been, in its exact similarity of char-
acter, the echo (but a stifled and dull one
certainly) of the very cracking and ripping
sound which Sir Launcelot had so particu-
larly described. It was, beyond doubt, the
coincidence alone which had arrested my
attention; for, amid the rattling of the
sashes of the casements, and the ordinary
commingled noises of the still increasing
storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing,
surely, which should have interested or dis-
turbed me. I continued the story:

"But the good champion Ethelred, now
entering within the door, was sore enraged
and amazed to perceive no signal of the
maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof,
a dragon of a scaly and prodigious de-
meanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate
in guard before a palace of gold, with a
floor of silver; and upon the wall there
hung a shield of shining brass with this
legend enwritten —

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win.

And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck
upon the head of the dragon, which fell
before him, and gave up his pesty breath,
with a shriek so horrid and harsh, and
withal so piercing, that Ethelred had fain

WEIRD TALES

to dose his ears with his hands against the
dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was
never before heard.”

H ere again I paused abruptly, and now
with a feeling of wild amazement —
for there could be no doubt whatever that,
in this instance, I did actually hear (al-
though from what direction it proceeded I
foimd it impossible to say) a low and ap-
parently distant, but harsh, protracted, and
most imusual screaming or grating sound
— the exact counterpart of what my fancy
had already conjured up for the dragon’s
unnatural shriek as described by the ro-
mancer.

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the
extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand
conflicting sensations, in which wonder and
extreme terror were predominant, I still re-
tained sufficient presence of mind to avoid
exciting, by an observation, the sensitive
nervousness of my companion.

I was by no means certain that he had
noticed the sounds in question; although,
assuredly, a strange alteration had, during
the last few minutes, taken place in his de-
meanor. From a position fronting my own,
he had gradually brought round his chair,
so as to sit with his face to the door of the
chamber; and thus I could but partially per-
ceive his features, although I saw that his
lips trembled as if he were murmuring in-
audibly. His head had dropped upon his
breast — ^yet I knew that he was not asleep,
from the wide and rigid opening of the eye
as I caught a glance of it in profile. The
motion of his body, too, was at variance
with this idea — for he rocked from side to
side with a gentle yet constant and uniform
sway.

Having rapidly taken notice of all this,
I resumed the narrative of Sir Lancelot,
which thus proceeded:

"And now, the champion, having es-
caped from the terrible fury of the dragon,
bethinking himself of the brazen shield.

and of the breaking up of the enchantment
which was upon it, removed the carcass
from out of the way before him, and ap-
proached valorously over the silver pave-
ment of the castle to where the shield was
upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not
for his full coming, but fell down at his
feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty
great and terrible ringing sound.”

No sooner had these syllables passed my
lips, than — as if, a shield of brass had in-
deed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a
floor of silver — I became aware of a dis-
tinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, yet
apparently muffled, reverberation. Com-
pletely unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but
the measured rocking movement of Usher
was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in
whicli he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly
before him, and throughout his whole
countenance there reigned a stony rigidity.
But, as I placed my hand upon his shoul-
der, there came a strong shudder over his
whole person; a sickly smile quivered about
his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low,
hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if un-
conscious of ray presence. Bending closely
over him I at length drank in the hideous
import of his words.

"Not hear it? — yes, I hear it, and have
heard it. Long — long — long — many min-
utes, many hours, many days, have I heard
it — yet I dared not — oh, pity me, miserable
wretch that I am! — I dared not — I dared
not speak! We have put her living in the
tomb! Said I not that my senses were acute?
I now tell you that I heard her first feeble
movements in the hollow coffin. I heard
them — many, many days ago — ^j-et I dared
not — 1 dared not speak! And now — ^to-
night — Ethelred — ^ha! ha! — the breaking
of the hermit’s door, and the death-cry of
the dragon, and the clangor of the shield —
say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and
the grating of the iron hinges of her prison,
and her struggles within the coppered arch-
way of the vault! Oh! whither shall I fly?

THE FALC of the HOUSE OF USHER 151

Will she not be here anon? Is she not hur-
rying to upbraid me for my haste? Have I
not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I
not distinguish that heavy and horrible
beating of her heart? Madman! ” — ^here he
sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked
out his syllables, as if in the effort he were
giving up his soul — "Madman! I tell you
that she now stands without the door!’’

As if in the superhuman energy of his
utterance there had been found the potency
of a spell, the huge antique panels to which
the speaker pointed threw slowly back,
upon the instant, their ponderous and
ebony jaws. It was the work of the rush-
ing gust — but then without those doors
there did stand the lofty and enshrouded
figure of the lady Madeline of Usher.
There was blood upon her white robes,
and the evidence of some bitter struggle
upon every portion of her emaciated frame.
For a moment she remained trembling and
reeling to and fro upon the threshold —
then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily
inward upon the person of her brother, and
m her violent and now final death-agonies.

bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim
to the terrors he had anticipated.

From that chamber, and from that man-
sion, I fled aghast. The storm was still
abroad in all its wrath as I found my-
self crossing the old causeway. Suddenly
there shot along the path a wild light, and
I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual
could have issued, for the vast house and
its shadows were alone beliind me. The
radiance was that of the full, setting, and
blood-red moon, which now shone vividly
through that once barely discernible fissure,
of which I have before spoken as extend-
ing from the roof of the building, in a
zigzag direction, to the base. While I
gazed, this fissure rapidly widened — there
came a fierce breath of the whirlwind — the
entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon
my sight — my brain reeled as I saw the
mighty walls rushing asunder — there was a
long tumultuous shouting sound like the
voice of a thousand waters — and the deep
and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly
and silently over the fragments of the
"House of Usher.”

T^he (Vardens of Yin

^ By H. P. LOVECRAFT

Beyond the wall, whose ancient masonry
Reached almost to the sky in moss-thick towers.
There would be terraced gardens rich with flowers,
And flutter of bird and butterfly and bee.

There would be walks, and bridges arching over
Warm lotus-pools reflecting temple eaves.

And cherry trees with delicate boughs and leaves
Against a pink sky where the herons hover.

All would be there, for had not old dreams flung
Open the gate to that stone-lanterned maze
Where drowsy streams spin out their winding ways.
Trailed by green vines from bending branches hung?
I hurried, but when the wall rose, grim and great,

I found there was no longer any gate.

M any of you, the readers, have
written to the Eyrie asking
whether the double-dating of the
June-July issue meant that Weird Tales was
changing to a bi-monthly. The answer is no.
Despite the combining of the June and July
issues, the magazine remains a monthly. All
subscriptions will be automatically extended
one month.

No Brother, We Assure You
Charles H. Chandler writes from Wooster,
Ohio: "For a couple of months now I’ve been
reluctant to bother you, who are already so
bothered witli letters and comments and criti-
cisms; but I can no longer contain myself.
The human being does not exist who can
read an issue of WT of the quality of your
June-July one without forthwith going out
and shouting to all the v/orld about it. Two
Lovecraft stories of rare excellence — another
installment of Howard’s Almuric, which has
been consistently exciting and interesting (not
to mention that it is an outstanding literary
job — Far Below, which is one weird tale in a
thousand — Clark Ashton Smith’s delicate Chi-
nese fantasy (Smida seems to know more about
the Middle Kingdom than do most writers
on the subject) — all those in one issue! I
don’t wonder you combined the June and
July issues — you had enough good stories for
two issues, and the rest would likely have
been filler and so as well left out. The only
drav/back is that sucli an issue makes the
reader want more, and soon — which you are
denying him. ... I hardly know what story
to give my vote to for first place in the June-
152

July issue. 'The Lovecraft stories are tops for
literary merit, as is Smith’s work also. Far
Below was well written and convincing, which
Giants of Anarchy definitely was not. ... I
guess first place goes to Celephais, with the
others all tied for a very near second — a
photo-finish, to be exact. The shorts were
good as a rule, but not up to, say, Kuttner’s
The Watcher at the Door in the May issue,
(hly vote goes to The Hollow Moon for first
in that issue.) Now about the illustrations.
Your artists are all good, but Finlay is still
without serious competition. (Perhaps some
would be good for him.) His distinctive and
most eflPective style is his line-work — cross-
hatch — and stipple. But lately he’s been
dashing off a lot of charcoal work which
looks as if just anyone had done it — and I
don’t like that a bit! Not that it isn’t good
of its kind — but this kind isn’t good enough.
But his series of full-page illustrations (and
the one in the June-July issue is O. K. with a
capital K) is still a fine thing and I’m all
for it. I second Reader O'Cormell’s sugges-
tion of a Finlay cover from literature. Let’s
have one, not only once but often.”

A Literary Diet

E. K. McCabe writes from Toledo, Ohio:
"This, my initial attempt at elaboration on
the contents of a magazine to its editors may
lack the polished finesse of a regular aitic,
but everything has a beginning. I wouldn’t
take trouble except that I have been inter-
ested in mythology and metaphysics for a
number of years and yours is the only maga-
zine on the market to brush upon those sub-

THE EYRIE

153

jects. In my opinion one of the best stories
printed between your covers was the beautiful
More Lives Than One, by Seabury Quinn,
published in a recent issue. Another tale I
enjoyed greatly was Lhe Quest of Iranon, by
H. P, Loveaaft. This tale told a poignant
truth, the hopelessness of a search for the
ultimate beauty and the ethereal plane. The
end of the seeker was sorrowful but inevi-
table. The Return of Hastur was an excel-
lent tale of the Elder Gods. Let us have
more stories of these types and now and then
toss in a tale of vampirism or lycanthropy
for dessert. Weird Tales is unique in its
field and presents a literary diet not easily
found. I have been a steady reader for the
last seven years, but any more hackneyed trash
like that disclosed in The Stratosphere Men-
ace and Giant-Plasm and others of their ilk
and I’ll throw up my hands. Stay out of
science-fiction — the field is glutted. I enjoy
lusty tales like those written by Robert E.
Howard, now deceased, although at times I
am bored with the undefeatability of the
Herculean heroes.”

Quite Some Fellow

Caroline Ferber writes from Chicago:
"Now to get to the May issue — ^with a com-
pliment to Everil Worrell for a fine piece of
entertainment in The Hollow Moon. Let me
say right now that Almuric is about the best
and most unusual of any Howard story I’ve
read. We still lament the loss of so fine a
writer — so brilliant a brain. Esau Cairn of
Almuric is quite some fellow — the illustra-
tions really bring him wonderfully to life.
As for the tale itself — absorbing — too ab-
sorbing — very good all around — and I’m glad
there are two more installments. The verse
of Howell Calhoun, The Plumed Serpent, is
good. Witch’s Hair has a Medusa tang —
excellent reading. Ah-h — the reprint. The
Dead Soul, embodied an ideal fearful idea — ■
new to me — amazing and chilling.”

Best Magazine in Pulp Paper

John Chapman writes from Minneapolis:
"My congratulations to Everil Worrell for her
outstanding word-picture, The Hollow Moon.

It ranks unquestionably as the best story in
the May issue. Quinn’s Washington Nocturne
was good. We should have more of this
type and a little less of Jules deGrandin.
'They’re still talking about Roads, and I don’t
blame them. Paul Ernst is always dependable,
but couldn’t the hero be someone besides a
reporter — just for a change.^ Witch’s Hair
and the reprint were both excellent. Kuttner’s
story was fair — The Transgressor was much
better. The Phantom Island was the best
of the short stories. DeLay’s cover was good.
He couldn’t have picked a better scene to il-
lustrate. Thanks for the 160 pages — it helps
a lot. You still have the best magazine printed
on pulp paper.”

Into Vigorous Maturity

Sam Moskowitz writes from Newark, New
Jersey: "The May issue is the last step in
improvement as Weird Tales swings into
vigorous maturity. That new type was all that
was needed to restore to 'the Unique Maga-
zine’ that indefinable atmosphere which
'makes’ Weird Tales. Words cannot begin
to express my appreciation of Robert E. How-
ard’s supreme masterpiece, Almuric. The
story has everything. The Hollow Moon was
really weird. It is one of the weirdest pseudo-
science stories ever composed. I v/as especially
pleased to see Lester del Rey represented in
your pages. He has 'it’ and more. The digging
up of posthumous works of such authors as H.
P. Lovecraft and Arlton Eadie, such as you
have done in your latest number, is doubtless
one of the reasons why Seymour Kapetansky
enthuses 'I love Weird Tales,’ in your May
reader’s department. We all share Mr. Kape-
tansky’s views. Keep that excellent new type,
whatever you do.” [’The "new type” was de-
signed by Claude Garamond, a French printer
of the Sixteenth Century, whose graceful type
designs were so admired by his contemporaries
that he gave up printing and devoted the
rest of his life to designing and cutting type
faces for other printers. — ^The Editor.]

The Great Howard

John V. Baltadonis writes from Philadel-
phia: "There isn’t the slightest doubt in my

WEIRD TALES

mind that Almuric is the best story in the
May issue — for a great many issues, in fact.
I hope the story is long and takes up about
six installments (every one thirty pages) !
With the absence of Howard’s action stories
from the pages of Weird Tales, one almost
begins to believe that such authors as Ball,
Kuttner, etc., are capable of taking the place
of the aeator of Oman ; however, upon read-
ing Almuric, one realizes that such as they
cannot even begin to compare with the great
Howard. Needless to say, the stirring tale of
Esau Cairn is super-excellent. Cross of Fire,
by Lester del Rey, was an interesting short
tale. Unusual treatment of the vampire ele-
ment, to say the least. I welcomed The Phan-
tom Island, a really good story. The Hollow
Moon, Everil Worrell's contribution, is an-
other 'diflrerent’ vampire yarn. Very good.
The Dark Isle, Washington Nocturne, The
Face at Death Corner, were all good. It seems
that since Weird Tales has changed pub-
lishers, it has been getting better all along.
Weird Tales, at present, is better than it has
been for a long, long time. The best illustra-
tions for the issue are those by Finlay for
Almuric. As usual, the poem interpretation
is excellent. Harry Ferman, your newest art-
ist, is also very goodj I expect to see some
very good work by him in your future issues.”

Keep WT Weird

Arthur S. Doan writes from Fort Wayne,
Indiana: “After a four years’ silence I am
again writing to the Eyrie. I have read all the
issues of Weird Tales and can say truth-
fully that there have not been any issues that
were not worth the money. Some issues, of
course, are much superior to others. I have
seen many changes in WT since the first issue
and think that they have all been for the best
with the exception of the few bi-monthly is-
sues put out several years ago. Now that we
have the new larger magazine I should be
satisfied, but I believe there is still room for
improvement in tlie covers. ... I see that
the contributors to the Eyrie are becoming
more international than ever. That is all to
the good, as they all seem to be genuine weird
tale fans. The biggest asset WT has is that the
stories are weird. Let’s keep it that way. Some

stories well written and entertaining find their
way into our’ magazine which have no busi-
ness there. One of these is Seabury Quinn’s
Washington Nocturne in the May issue. It
suffers much in comparison with such a story
as The Hollow Moon, which I vote the out-
standing story in this issue. . . . You have
so many good authors that it would be unfair
to try and pick favorites. I like all of them.
I think that Clark Ashton Smith writes the
'weirdest’ weird tales.”

What a Story!

Dale Lehner writes from Youngstown,
Ohio: “I have just finished reading the May
issue of WT and I can truthfully say it is one
of the finest issues you have ever produced.
The best story is The Hollow Moon. This
story was all you claimed for it and a good
deal more besides. What a story! One to
read and reread. It really was different. Please
give us more by this splendid author soon.
Washington Nocturne by Quinn was my sec-
ond choice. A splendid story. Quinn can al-
ways be depended on to produce something
unusual.”

Too Much Lettering

Harry Warner, Jr. writes from Hagers-
town, Maryland: 'The cover on the July WT
is pretty good, but spoiled by all that letter-
ing. Can’t you remove some of it? I really
think that it would attract more attention if
left without any distractions at all. Poetry ex-
cepionally fine this time, especially Lovecraft
and They Run Again. Such gruesomeness!
Seems to me that Seabury Quinn slipped up
just a wee mite on a point in Mansions in the
Sky. The thing that leaves fingerprints is a
very thin coating of oil on the fingertips. Yet,
there was no way for this oil to be on the
synthetic fingerprints on the gloves, so how
in the world did they find them? Celephats
is exquisitely beautiful; its only rival is The
Quest of Iranon. The Willow Landscape cer-
tainly is intriguing, no doubt about it. The
Stroke of Twelve produced a chilly feeling in
the nether regions of my vertebras; first time
that’s happened since Up Under the Roof.
And last but not least, Far Below had more of

THE EYRIE

155

a convindag quality to it than anything I’ve
read in a long time — ^in plot, that is. Almost *
makes me feel like investigating the New
York subway system myself.”

Praise for the Cover
Frank Bryan, Jr., writes from Nelson, Okla-
homa: "Please don’t tell me that WT is go-
ing bi-monthly; that would be like half kill-
ing me. I have always been of the opinion
that if you could get enough stories you
should come out once a week. I sincerely hope
that this will be the only double issue this
year. . . . Up to now I have not thought you
had put out a good cover, since you apparently
do not like Brundage, but whatever I have
said or thought I take it back, as the cover
on the July issue is impossible to praise highly
enough. I think you should not have printed
any matter on the cover though, or else have
it sort of boxed in down at the bottom. . . .
'The stories are always good, or better, so
there is no need to say anything about them.
The more Robert E. Howard and H. P. Love-
craft stories you print the better I will like it.

I am not one of your old readers who are
able to refer to King Kull and other classics,
so I would appredate very much your reprint-
ing old Howard and Loveaaft stories. The
best story in this issue I think is Almnric."

That Oooogy Feeling
George Aylesworth writes from Mackinaw
City, Michigan: "The reprint in the July issue.
Imprisoned with the Pharaohs, was excellent.
Almuric is coming along nicely and other
good ones in this issue were Mansions in the
Sky, Par Below, and Lens-Shy. I don’t want
to renew tlie interplanetaryarn squabble of ’33,
but don’t you think there are enough mags
now (9) devoted to sdence-fiction so that you
do not have to print that type of story? I am
a confirmed scientifiction nut but I like Weird
Tales, the only mag of its kind, to be weird.
In spite of all my brickbats. I’ll still buy WT,
the only mag that gives me — shall we say.
Miss Ferber ? — that oooogy feeling.”

Diversity of Material
E. Hoffman Price writes from California:
"The local colony of writers and would-be

writers has for some time marvelled at the di-
versity of material you offer in WT. As nearly
as humanly possible, you seem to have made
WT devoid of any ’policy’ beyond the broad
limitation that the yarn must involve an ele-
ment of fantasy. While it is true that not
every item occuring in the sacred pages is
greeted with frenzies of approbation, some
of the yarns that have griped us have made
quite a hit with other readers ; and appealing
to a diversity of tastes is really an accomplish-
ment.”

A Horse Race

Leah Bodine Drake writes from Owens-
boro, Kentucky: "I wouldn’t have believed it
possible if I hadn’t seen it happen, but WT
keeps right on doing it. Doing what? Not
the 'Turkey Trot,’ but putting out a better
magazine every month, every one of those 160
pages ! This last issue was a dilly ! First hon-
ors go to Seabury Quinn. I don’t see how
he does it, but he crashes through every so
often with a story so fine, so beautifully writ-
ten, so sincere, that I think the man must be
inhuman. Washington Nocturne was a bit off
the beaten track for WT, being less of a weird
tale than a timely piece of propaganda, and
'pointing a moral.’ It is hard to pick out
the place and show horses (it’s race- time down
in 'Old Kaintuck’!), but my money went on
Almuric for place, with Watcher at the Door
and The Face at Death Corner tying in a dead
heat for third. The others were all thrilling
and intriguing tales, especially The Dark Isle;
and if the others had to be, of necessity, also-
rans, it was a stake-race and not a claiming
one. (To get back into English, they were all
good, even if they didn’t make first, second
and third places in my judgment.) The
poetry, as is usual in WT, was good. How
Virgil Finlay’s inventive powers keep going
at full stride I cannot imagine. He rings the
bell every time with his eery picturizations of
famous weird poems. . . . That man surely
uses a quill of the Ruhk, or a feather from
the wing of a Marid — no earthly pen could
ever limn such scenes.”

Masters of the Weird

Paul I. McCleave writes from Nantucket,
Massachusetts: "Primarily this missive is in-

156

WEIRD TALES

SPEC5AL OFFER

The Moon Terror

By A. G. BIRCH

THE MOON TERROR
by A. G. Birch

Is a stupendous 'weird-sdentific novel
of Oriental intrigue to gain control
of the world.

Also — Other Stories

In addition to the full-length novel,
this book also contains three shorter
stories by well-known authors of
thrilling weird-sdentific fiction:

OOZE by Anthony M. Rud

Tells of a biologist who removed the
growth limitations from an amoeba,
and the amazing catastrophe that
ensued.

PENELOPE by Vincent Starrett
Is a fascinating tale of the star Pen-
elope, and the fantastic thing that
happened when the star was in peri-
helion.

AN ADVENTURE IN THE
FOURTH DIMENSION

by Farnsworth Wright

Is an uproarious skit on the four-
dimensional theories of the mathe-
maticians, and inter-planetary stories
in general.

Limited Supply

Make sure of getting your copy now
before the close-out supply is ex-
hausted. Send your order today for
this book at the special bargain
price of only 50c.

(KOO

NOTE: This book for sale from the
publishers only. It cannot be purchased
in any book store.

WEIRD TALES, Book Dept.,

0 llocUefcUer Flttza, New Vork, N. Y.» U. S. A.

Enclosed find 50c for cloth-bound copy of
THE MOON TERROR as per your special
offer.

Name,

Add)

tended as humble tribute to two great masters
of the true weird (one of tliem is no longer
with us); Robert E. Howard and Seabury
Quinn. To say that I merely enjoyed Almuric
would be a gross understatement ; for I visited
there an alien world, fought back to back with
the strongest man of two planets, suffered the
cold of the peril-fraught night. Surely, no
mean author it is who can thus gain such
absolute control over the subconscious of his
readers. With Washington Nocturne it is
slightly different: here one feels an inner con-
flict, the futility of war in the light of in-
dividual suffering and loss. Whether or not
the Unknown Soldier does fill such a splendid
capacity is a thing to ponder on; at any rate,
it is (in one man's opinion) the most superior
talc in the May issue. Congratulations ! Thanks
for the Delay cover. Though I consider Fin-
lay your most satisfying artist, I think a bit of
variety won’t hurt a bit. And, oh yes, how
about a Brundage nude on the cover — as a
sort of pleasant surprise?”

No Dog Tags?

Joseph A. Lovchik writes from Minto,
North Dalcota: "In the May issue of Weird
Tales appears the story Washington Noc-
turne by Seabury Quinn, and on page 50,
right side, I4th line, it is stated that officers
in the A. E. F. wore no identification or 'dog
tags.’ This is wrong, I have upon good
authority. The stories The Hollow Moon by
Everil Worrell and the above-mentioned
Washington Nocturne were my choice. ... I
have not missed an issue of WT since the
1923 number wherein appeared Ooze "

That Iceberg Cover

Sonya Ardell writes from Miami, Florida:
"This is the first fan letter I’ve ever written
to any magazine, mainly because up till now
I just haven’t taken time off for such things,
but after seeing the May issue of Weird
Tales, 1 just had to steal the time to let you
know that after viewing Harold Delay’s cover
and illustrations for this issue I consider him
the master artist of them all so far, in this
particular field of art work. His delicate han-
dling of colors for the cover was fascinating

THE EYRIE

and his black and white illustrations were ex-
ceptionally fine too, as were also Virgil Fin-
lay’s, and in fact I don’t sec how anyone could
fail to appreciate all the illustrations in this
issue because they were certainly above par.”

Lovecraft’s Works

’Thomas O. Mabbott writes from New York
City: "I do not usually like serials; they tend
to taper off at the end. But Fearful Rock was
excellent, and ended as well as it began.
Almuric starts well ; may it keep up the pace.
I do not know if Lovecraft or Hov/ard was
the greater loss, but as Howard was younger,
the potential loss was worse. By the way, is
there no chance of a collected edition of
Lovecraft? He deserves one.” [Messrs. Der-
leth and Wandrei are preparing a collected
edition of Lovecraft’s stories, poems and let-
ters. — The Editor.]

We Are Not Bored

Richard Kraft writes from Elizabeth, New
Jersey: "Well, the irresistible urge to send a
letter to good old WT has me again, so here
goes. 'The May WT contains a maximum of
good yams. Best I liked Kuttner’s short, a
well-done, novel tale. Quinn scores heavily
with Washington Nocturne, and Paul Ernst
gets third place with The Face at Death Cor-
ner. 'The rest of the stories v.'cre o. k. with
the exception of these three: The Hollow
Moon, Not Both, and The Dark Isle. Maybe
The Hollow Moon is a very extraordinary
yarn and that I’m cuckoo; but it seems that
Worrell’s style is a bit too complicated and
involved for the story’s own good. Not Both
was very usual and very mediocre; and sur-
prise of surprises. Bob Bloch comes to shame
with The Dark Isle. Tch! Tch! This story
seemed to me a hodgepodge of thisa and
thata: more like a cheap blood-and-thunder
thriller than anything else! Well, now that
I’ve commented on the stories and bored you
to tears. I’ll close.”

Stories Always Good

S. Brown, Jr., writes to the Eyrie: "You
often state that WT is run by the readers.
May I offer a few suggestions then? I have

H 7

GEtAIROYAL

"BIQCeST HELP thAt ever came
Intd our bouae , . . eaves me time
with my reperta and letters (I'm &
salesman) • . . my wife uses It for
her correspondence . • , As for tb«
ehildren, you abould see their heme-
work now^neat. business-Uke-Hbey
both typo Uko streaks— In fact, we aU
dor

PORTABLE ON

spiD NO MONCyi Spend no money! Just mall oeupoa
bel^ for the facta — all about the Royal Portable^
^dele— pricee— tenns—detalle of FREE HOME TRIAIt
Th« see without RISK1N(3 A PENNY Just how easy
® ojfco typ9~

toriter featuret
weryono in your fafniiy't

' how a Royal wlR h^p

ACT

NOW

REDUCED

TIME

ONLY

SAVE

20 %

YKAR

■ ••ye! Company. Inc.

Dm- D-My. * Park Avenua. Now York City
I Tell mo Tiow I can have a full>aiKed. latest modal,
- faetory-netv Royal Portable to try In nw own bd^oe
I ABSOLUTELY FREE, NO OBLIGATION.

FREEfHOME TRIAL

CITY County.

WANTED

ORIGINAL POEMS, SONGS
for PUBLICATION and RADIO

— and for submission to motion picture, record and
transcription markets.

Westmore Slusio Carp., Dept. 28-F, Portland, Ore.

ROLLS DEVELOPED

Two Beautiful Double-Weight Professional Enlargements.
8 Never Fade Prints. 25e.

CENTURY PHOTO SERVICE, La Crosse, Wis.

Be A Radio Expert

Learn at Home^Make Good AVonoy

Many men I trained now make $30, $50, $75 a week in Badlo.
Many started making 15, $10, $15 a week extra to epare time
soon after enrolling. Illustrated 61*page book points put Baalp e
many opportunities: also how I train you at borne to be a Badto
Expert through my practical 50-50 method. Televlelon training w
included, iloney Back Agreement given. Mail coupon today. Ue4
book FItEB.

'Bich I

AOK I

NAME I

. I
I

•T. E. SMT15T, President, brpt. »HM.

Nstlonal Badlo Institute, Washington, D. C.

Send me. without obligation, your Sl-page hook.
Bewards in Badio" FEEE. (Please ivrlto pialniy.)

APDBESS.

CITT STATE.

1^8

WEIRD TALES'

Next Month

King of the World’s Edge

By H. Warner Munn

T he author of The Chain and
The Werewolf of Ponkert re-
turns to the pages of Weird Tales
with an enthralling novel of un-
canny happenings and weird ad-
ventures in America in the time
of King Arthur, a novel in which
Merlin is one of the principal
characters.

H OW THE LITTLE band of ad-
venturers found their way
to the New World after Arthur’s
death, how they fled across the
Atlantic under the leadership of a
Roman centurion who had never
seen Rome, how they were aided
by Merlin’s occult powers, and
the incredibly strange reception
that awaited them, make a tale
that will hold your eyes to the
printed page. This absorbing novel
will begin

in the September issue of

WEIRD TALES

on sale August 1

To avoid missing your copy, clip
and mail this coupon today for

SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION W|
OFFER. (YOO SAVE 25c.) y

WEI RD T AI.E8
9 Rockefeller Plata
New York. N. Y.

enclosed, find $2.S0 for which send me the next
twelve iS8U<a of WEIRD TALES to begin with the
September issue. (Special offer void unless remit*
tance is accompanied by coupon.)

made some of these before but I will men-
tion them again: (1) New cut for the table
of contents head; (2) New typography — like
the kind you had in Chicago; (3) As much
as I hate to say it, Virgil was eclipsed by
Harry Ferman in this last issue. . . . Your
stories are always good.” [Since April, Weird
Tales has used the graceful Garamond type
as of yore. — ^The Editor.]

Life of Poe

Willis Conover, Jr., writes from Salisbury,
Maryland: 'T was pleased to note your an-
nouncement of the forthcoming Finlay pic-
turization of Poe’s Raven, on the cover. I am
sure Virgil’s painting will be a memorable
one. This is of particular interest to me be-
cause we have chosen (here at the State Teach-
ers College) as this year’s major production,
Plumes hi the Dust, Sophie Treadwell’s story
of the tragic life of Edgar Allan Poe.”

Baby Talk

Charles Wilkos writes from Qiicago: "I’m
not in the habit of writing regularly, but this
month I had to. Swell cover, best piece of
cover work I’ve seen in a long while. Haven’t
tired of studying it yet. Kindly forward a
hearty pat on the back of our able Mr. Finlay.
Almuric takes the monthly throne in our esti-
mation. Although you announced R. E. How-
ard did not polish it up, it’s still a masterpiece
to me! 'Old Faitliful’ Seabury Quinn could
whip up a good barbarian tale. Consider it a
request. Celephais runs second. HPL imbued
it with a dream-like intangible quality that’s
absorbing. Far Below takes third with its hor-
ror that leaps at you as the narrator progresses.
Hats off to many old friends in the Eyrie for
many interesting letters, but — one thing rubs
my fur the wrong way and that’s the lacka-
brain females that haven’t mastered the Eng-
lish language and voice their comments in
baby talk.”

Congratulations

B. Reagan writes from Pittsburgh: "Con-
gratulations are due for the July issue. Sca-
bury Quinn (as usual) leads with Mansions
in the Sky. Johnson’s Far Below easily takes

THE EYRIE

15f9

second honors, while Bryan’s The Sitter in the
Mound competes with Kummer’s The Man
Who Came Back. Fourth honors are divided
between Cave’s The Death Watch and Clay-
•^on’s Lens-Shy.”

A Fine Story

obert Bloch writes from Milwaukee: "In
vfay issue, Quinn’s story, while of a 'sen-
vtal’ type, seems to me to bid fair to
1 Roads in popularity. I predict that it
be extremely well acclaimed by the read-
for its smooth writing. Am awaiting the
nn serial with interest, and further HPL
prints. I got a real kick out of reading WT
lile convalescing.’’

R
the :
time:
equa
will
ers
Mu .

Concise Comments

^ Irs. Hazel Heald writes from Somerville,
sachusetts: "Your improved and larger
azine contains a feast of reading enjoy-
nt.’’

R. D. Styche writes from Hull, Eng-
land.,. "j jjjye been buying WT since August,
153,7^ and feel I must write and offer con-
S’^^.tulations on a really fine book. We find so
™ any 'blood and thunder’ thrillers on the
•American market that it is really refreshing
find a decent well-written story.’’

Donald Ford writes from Kingston, Ohio:
"Now that your size has been increased, why
not reprint a few serials Serials that have
not been printed in WT before should be pop-
ular.’’

E. B. Hardy writes from Lewiston, Maine:
"It is a real treat to read a story like Robert
E. Howard’s Almuric, and I consider it a
good spring tonic for winter-weary folk.’’

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Texts

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "Weird Tales v34n02 [1939 08] (AT sas)"

See other formats